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JS    '  •-('  "I  ;         •  '     ' 


lifornfl 

ional 

lity 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


The  L.  Graham  Co.,  Printers 
New  Orleans,  La. 


'icL 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  PART. 


Nine  Years  Ago  at  Panama 7 

Mr.  Comstock  'a  Arrival   44 

The  Derelict 57 

The  Bounder 67 

Higgins '  Lady 77 

The  Gang  in  No.  10 94 

The  Man  from  No.  9 105 

The  Canal  Zone  Architect's  Wedding 124 

Graft 151 

Vere  de  Vere  160 

An  Awful  Mystery   175 

A  night  Off   185 

The  District  Quartermasters   195 

Old  Panama 's  Renaissance    205 

Abe  Lincoln,  Foundling 208 

Stranger  Than  Fiction 211 

Faction  Fights 215 

INDEX  OF  SECOND  PART. 

PAOE. 

The  Woes  of  the  Manly  Ones 219 

The  Flight  of  the  Manly  Ones 222 

The  Tango  Skirt  and  The  Woman 226 

An  Epic  of  the  Zone 227 

To  the  Vultures  on  the  Zone 229 

A  Faker 's  Farewell  230 

It 's  Got   'Em 231 

It 's  Hell.  . 233 

The   Loco   Germ    234 

An  Isthmian  Wooer 236 

A  Word  to  the  Slandered  Ones 224 

Mrs.  With 's  Affinity   225 

Preserved  Peaches   237 

Eugenics 238 

Toboga 240 

Our  Uncle  George   241 


1523409 


ARRIVAL  AT  PANAMA  NINE  YEARS  AGO. 


N 


(PAET  I.) 

INE  years  have  passed  since  the  ship 
which  brought  me  from  New  York 
to  Panama  pulled  out  of  its  dock  at 
the  foot  of  Twenty-seventh  Street.  It 
was  a  bitter  cold  day  in  February  and 
the  great  "Iron  City"  appeared  very 
grey  and  forbidding  as  I  took  a  last 
look  at  it  before  going  below.  A  glance  at  my 
fellow  passengers  revealed  to  me  a  motley  crowd. 
A  number  of  tourists  were  on  board  bound  for  West 
Indian  ports,  for  at  that  time  none  of  them  would 
have  dreamed  of  stopping  off  at  Panama,  and  among 
them  were  to  be  found  the  young  and  handsome, 
the  old  and  ugly,  the  lame,  the  halt  and  the  blind. 
There  were  more  than  a  hundred  artisans  and  clerks 
bound  for  the  Panama  Canal.  There  were  several 
trained  nurses  for  the  American  hospitals  on  the 
Canal  Zone,  several  mining  engineers  who  were  on 
their  way  to  New  Mexico,  to  Peru,  and  a  millionaire, 
also  from  New  Mexico,  who,  to  use  his  own  words, 
"owned  the  whole  engineering  outfit."  There  was 


8  DROLL  8TORIE8 

also  a  well-known  United  States  Army  surgeon,  his 
wife,  and  the  wives  of  several  doctors  who  were 
already  on  the  Isthmus.  In  addition,  there  were 
several  newspaper  men,  three  San  Bias  Indians,  a 
general,  an  admiral,  a  Panamanian,  who  subsequent 
ly  became  President  of  Panama,  and  lastly  myself. 

As  my  readers  may  imagine,  the  passengers  were 
more  or  less  divided.  The  medical  ladies  felt  them 
selves  of  such  high  degree  in  the  profession  as  to 
positively  refuse  to  occupy  state-rooms  in  that  part 
of  the  ship  where  the  nurses  had  been  assigned. 
They  refused  to  eat  at  the  same  table  with  them, 
and  never,  by  any  chance,  would  they  sit  in  com 
pany.  The  general  and  the  admiral  were  the  most 
democratic  persons  on  board,  and  divided  their  time 
equally  among  us  all.  It  was  a  delightful  trip. 
Every  night  we  assembled  in  the  waist  of  the  ship 
and  danced  to  the  music  of  two  violins  under 
rhythm  of  the  waves. 

The  general  and  the  admiral  looked  on  approv 
ingly  and  forgot  their  dignity  to  so  great  an  extent 
as  to  keep  time  to  the  music  with  their  feet,  as  on 
lookers  are  apt  to  do  in  forgetfulness  when  they  are 
lifted  above  their  every-day  surroundings  by  strains 
of  sweet  music.  The  poor  surgeon  looked  longingly 
toward  the  way  we  made  merry,  but  he  was  too 
hemmed  in  by  conventionalities  to  join  us,  and  he 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  9 

feared  his  thin-voiced  little  wife,  who  was,  as 
Charles  Dickens  would  say,  in  an  interesting  con 
dition,  and  who  ruled  him  with  a  rod  of  iron.  The 
ladies  of  his  atmosphere  lowered  their  eyes  in  token 
of  disapproval  whenever  he  happened  to  venture  in 
our  midst,  and  on  us  they  bestowed  black  looks. 
But  we  didn't  care;  we  had  music,  good  fellowship, 
laughter,  love  and  tropical  moonlight,  and,  being  a 
mixed  assembly,  we  were  carrying  out  to  the  letter 
that  spirit  of  delightful  democracy  which  is  the 
proudest  boast  of  the  good  old  U.  S.  A. 

But  I  digress.  As  I  said  before,  we  danced,  and 
once  the  surgeon,  his  wife  being  seasick,  made  a 
break  and  danced  with  us.  He  was  a  good  dancer, 
and,  tell  it  not  in  Gath,  he  tried  to  flirt  a  little,  but 
"we"  were  as  much  afraid  of  the  thin  voice  of  his 
little  wife  as  were  the  good  doctors  themselves. 
"We"  started  with  fear  when  "we"  heard  her  call 
ing  him.  Every  girl  on  board  was  engaged  in  a  de 
lightful  flirtation,  and  one  young  girl — a  nurse — was 
engaged  in  good  faith  to  the  millionaire.  They  were 
to  be  married  at  Panama  as  soon  as 'they  landed, 
and  she  was  going  on  with  him  to  Peru.  She  now 
became  a  person  of  consequence,  because  she  had 
captured  the  only  millionaire  on  board.  Even  the 
medical  ladies  began  to  look  upon  her  as  a  possible 
person,  and  the  proudest  one  among  them,  an 


10  DROLL  STORIES 

F.  F.  V.  deigned  to  converse  with  her,  remarking 
that  she  thought  she  had  met  her  before  somewhere ; 
that  she  must  have  come  of  a  good  family,  etc. 

All  too  soon  the  delightful  trip  was  about  to  end. 
We  were  in  Colon  harbor.  Already  a  line  of  cocoa- 
nut  palms  had  burst  upon  our  view,  and  the  captain 
said  that  the  pretty  town  in  the  distance  was  Cris 
tobal.  Every  one  was  shaking  hands  preparatory 
to  going  ashore.  It  was  about  three  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon  and  the  last  train  had  gone  to  Panama, 
so  we  were  obliged  to  spend  the  night  at  a  Colon 
hotel. 

I  shall  never  forget  with  what  feelings  of  disgust 
I  went  up  the  dirty  stairs  to  the  bedroom  which  had 
been  assigned  to  three  of  the  nurses  and  myself. 
There  were  broad  verandas  around  the  hotel,  and 
they  were  littered  with  all  kind  of  rubbish.  The 
walls  and  floor  of  the  bedroom  were  bare  and  dingy, 
but  the  beds  really  looked  clean.  We  did  not  sleep 
that  night  because  of  the  noise  in  the  room  next  to 
ours.  A  disreputable  character  occupied  it,  and  she 
spent  the  night  in  a  drunken  revel  with  some  friends. 
In  the  morning  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  her,  and  I  was 
amazed  to  see  that  she  was  a  notorious  character 
who  had  been  tried  for  bigamy,  she  having  married 
two  young  men,  sons  of  wealthy  parents,  within  the 
space  of  a  few  months. 


0$  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  11 

The  New  York  yellow  journals  had  featured  her 
scandalous  behavior,  and  she  finally  dropped  out  of 
sight.  On  seeing  her,  a  gloom  settled  on  my  very 
soul,  and  a  feeling  of  loathing  for  Colon  came  into 
my  mind. 

I  was  glad  when  the  train  which  was  to  take  us  to 
Panama  pulled  out  of  the  station.  As  it  sped  on, 
we  were  charmed  with  the  wild  beauty  of  the  coun 
try.  The  luxurious  tropical  verdure  was  truly  de 
lightful,  and  helped  to  cheer  us  after  our  depressing 
experience  of  the  night  before. 

The  train  was  dirty  and  the  service  bad.  The 
conductor  came  and  set  down  beside  me  with  the 
ease  and  freedom  of  a  dear  brother.  He  asked  me 
questions  about  myself  and  talked  freely  of  his  own 
past  as  follows: 

"I  came  from  the  Far  West,  and  I  ain't  ever  in 
tending  to  go  back.  1  been  a  conductor  on  a  rail 
road  for  nigh  on  fifteen  years,  an'  I  tell  you  what, 
I  been  a  high  flyer.  I  stole  $30,000,  killed  a  man 
who  robbed  me  of  my  girl,  an'  then  just  lit  out. 
Panama  ain't  got  no  terrors  for  me,"  he  continued, 
"though  I  will  say  that  it  is  the  doggondest  place 
for  crooks  that  I  ever  struck." 

He  chewed  tobacco  vigorously,  and  he  spat 
through  the  open  window  in  a  noisy  sort  of  a  way 
that  was  as  amusing  as  it  was  disgusting. 


12  DROLL  STORIES 

"I'd  like  to  marry  a  good,  nice  girl  from  the 
States,"  he  went  on,  "but  good  ones  from  there  is 
goldarned  scarce.  Some  of  the  boys  is  taken  up 
with  wenches,  but  I'm  kind  of  particular  about  my 
self.  Though  I  ain't  been  no  saint,  the  woman  I 
marry'll  have  to  be  purty  free  from  the  dark  spots 
on  her  soul,  an'  her  skin'll  be  white  if  I  have  me 
eyesight.  I'm  gittin'  $211  a  month,  and'  the  system 
is  so  goldurned  bad  that  a  feller  could  knock  down 
twice  as  much  as  that.  I  do  want  to  be  honest,  but 
with  a  system  like  this  it's  purty  hard  fer  a  feller  to 
be  strictly  on  the  square." 

I  looked  into  his  face  as  he  said  this,  and  I  was 
impressed  with  its  honesty.  He  had  rather  a  likeable 
personality,  and  his  kindly  blue  eyes  would  have  a 
tendency  to  inspire  one  with  confidence.  He  had  a 
strong  face,  too — a  face  that  might  belong  to  one's 
most  respected  friend — and  yet  I  felt  my  flesh  creep 
at  the  thought  that  he  was  a  self-confessed  thief  and 
murderer.  After  a  pause  he  resumed: 

"All  the  folks  that  come  in  on  this  train'll  be 
measured  for  their  coffins  as  soon  as  they  land  at 
Panama.  Folks  is  dyin'  like  sheep  here  now  with 
yellow  fever,  and  the  place  ain't  fit  for  Americans 
to  live  in." 

"Only  a  few  persons  have  died  from  yellow 
fever,"  I  corrected. 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  13 

"Is  that  so?"  he  retorted.  "Folks  that  jest  land 
think  they  know  it  all." 

At  this  juncture  he  was  called  by  a  collector,  who 
appeared  much  perturbed,  and  I  concluded  that 
something  had  gone  wrong. 

"Wai,  let  them  rip;  ain't  there  a  policeman  out 
there?"  The  man  looked  disgusted  and  went  out 
grumbling. 

The  conductor  reseated  himself,  took  a  new  chew 
of  tobacco,  and  said : 

"If  I  had  no  more  brains  than  a  collector  I'd  go 
to  live  in  Panama,  git  measured  for  me  coffin,  take 
yellow  fever  an'  die." 

This  speech  sent  a  shiver  through  me,  as  we  were 
nearing  Panama,  and  my  husband  already  lived 
there. 

"The  architect  of  the  Canal  Zone  died  yesterday, 
and  the  chief  of  the  Panama  police  died  a  few  days 
ago,"  went  on  my  tormentor.  "It  ain't  no  place  for 
ladies,  an'  I  wonder  that  the  government  lets  them 
land.  We'll  be  there  in  five  minutes  now.  I'd  be 
glad  to  see  you  again ;  an',  say !  if  ever  you  go  broke 
let  me  know  an'  I'll  be  Johnny-on-the-spot  with. 
some  dinero  for  you,  fer  I  ain't  the  kind  of  a  man 
that'ud  let  a  lady  go  broke.  Not  with  the  lax  system 
of  the  Panama  railroad,"  he  concluded,  with  a 
crackling  sort  of  laugh  that  was  truly  funny. 


14  DROLL  STORIES 

We  were  at  the  station  now.  The  nurses  were 
being  helped  into  omnibuses;  the  medical  ladies 
were  helped  into  waiting  victorias,  which  were 
drawn  by  handsome  black  horses,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  I,  of  all  the  new  arrivals,  stood  on  the  sta 
tion  platform  alone.  There  was  no  one  to  meet  me. 
A  lump  gathered  in  my  throat  and  my  heart  beat 
loudly.  There  were  negroes  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
but  not  a  white  person  to  be  seen  anywhere.  Finally 
I  was  approached  by  a  young  man,  evidently  a 
Panamanian,  who  took  off  his  hat  and  respectfully 
asked  me  if  I  would  like  him  to  get  a  coach  for  me. 
"I  do  not  know  where  I  am  to  go,"  I  said  simply. 
"I  expected  my  husband  would  meet  me." 

"He  must  be  ill,"  said  the  young  man,  after  a 
pause,  "else  he  would  not  have  had  you  wait  for 
him.  It  will  be  better  for  you  to  take  a  coach  and 
ride  to  the  hospital  at  Ancon.  The  doctor  at  the 
gatehouse  will  know  whether  your  husband  is  sick 
or  not." 

"Perhaps  I  ought  to  wait  here  a  little  longer,"  I 
replied.  "He  might  have  been  detained." 

"It  is  hardly  likely  that  he  would  have  let  any 
thing  except  sickness  detain  him,"  said  the  young 
man.  "You  really  must  take  a  coach,  because  there 
are  rough  Americans  about  who  would  not  hesitate 
to  insult  you." 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  15 

"I  do  not  fear  them,"  I  said,  "I  am  an  American 
myself." 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  replied,  "but  the  Americans  I  know 
about  Panama  are  not  of  your  class.  They  are  here 
in  great  numbers,  and  they  are  very  rough  and 
vulgar." 

I  felt  resentful,  but  at  the  same  time  grateful  to 
him  for  his  courtesy,  and  I  allowed  him  to  call  a 
coach  and  help  me  in.  When  I  got  to  the  gatehouse 
of  Ancon  Hospital  I  was  told  that  my  husband  had 
been  admitted  to  the  yellow  fever  ward  the  night 
before.  There  were  several  men  suspected  of  having 
yellow  fever,  and  he  was  among  them.  I  was  told 
that  it  would  be  impossible  to  see  him,  as  he  was 
very  ill  and  would  not  recognize  me. 


ARRIVAL  AT  PANAMA  NINE  YEARS  AGO. 


T 


(PAET  II.) 

^^  HAT'S  what  I  call  hard  luck,"  said  the 
doctor  in  charge.  "Where  are  you 
going  to  stop  ?  You'd  better  go  to  the 
Central.  There's  American  women 
down  there."  He  then  gave  me  some 
quinine  and  bade  me  take  care  of 
myself,  after  which  I  entered  the  cab 
and  was  driven  to  the  Central  Hotel  in  Panama, 
where  I  engaged  a  room.  It  was  up  one  flight 
and  overlooked  the  Cathedral  Plaza.  The  furni 
ture  consisted  of  two  broken  chairs,  a  broken 
table,  a  rickety  desk  of  drawers,  with  pieces  of 
string  attached  for  handles,  and  a  mirror  very  dim 
from  age.  There  was  no  rug  on  the  dirty  floor,  and 
there  did  not  appear  to  be  any  means  of  lighting  the 
place.  The  walls  and  ceilings  were  festooned  with 
cobwebs,  and  the  grime  of  many  years  completely 
covered  the  paint,  which  one  might  guess  had  once 
been  an  unsightly  green.  There  were  two  small 
beds  in  the  room,  and  on  examining  them  I  found 
them  to  be  very  clean.  They  were  incongruously 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  17 

draped  within  white  net,  such  as  is  used  by  mil 
liners.  The  servant  told  me  that  the  net  was  used 
to  keep  mosquitoes  from  biting  the  sleepers.  For 
this  disreputable  apartment,  with  two  meals  and  a 
cup  of  very  bad  coffee,  I  was  to  pay  $5.00  gold  per 
day.  There  was  no  bell  in  the  room,  and  no  one 
looked  in  to  see  if  I  might  need  anything.  When  I 
shut  the  door  and  put  a  chair  against  it  I  felt  as  much 
alone  as  if  I  was  on  a  desert  island.  There  was  a 
little  balcony  outside  the  door,  which  looked  out 
upon  the  street,  and  I  sat  on  this  the  whole  after 
noon,  as  the  gloom  and  dampness  of  the  room  de 
pressed  me  terribly.  When  night  came  a  negro 
brought  me  a  candle  stuck  in  an  old  black  bottle. 
He  also  brought  my  dinner,  although  I  had  intended 
to  go  into  the  dining-room,  which  was  well  lighted, 
as  I  thought  I  might  meet  some  American  women 
there. 

Day  after  day  I  sat  on  my  little  balcony  and 
looked  upon  the  plaza.  I  was  too  perturbed  to  read. 
Sometimes  I  went  downstairs  and  entered  the  peace 
ful  Cathedral,  where  I  knelt  before  graven  images 
and  offered  up  Protestant  prayers  for  my  husband's 
safe  recovery  and  for  my  own  peace  of  mind.  In 
the  hotel  dining-room  I  noticed  some  women  whom 
1  thought  might  be  Americans.  They  were  bulging- 
browed,  loud-voiced,  unsocial  to  one  another,  and 


18  DROLL  STORIES 

unfriendly  to  me.  They  were  well  groomed,  how 
ever,  and  wore  good  jewels.  Every  day  they  rode 
horseback  astride,  and  shouted  to  one  another  in 
nasal  tones,  but  all  my  efforts  to  get  acquainted  with 
them  were  in  vain.  They  looked  at  me  as  if  to  say : 
"Gee!  but  you  do  represent  the  gloomy  side  of 
Panama."  I  subsequently  learned  that  these  women 
were  the  wives  of  contracting  engineers  and  railroad 
men  from  the  Far  West.  They  were  the  only 
women  in  evidence  in  Panama  at  that  time.  I 
occasionally  saw  a  sad-faced  woman,  carefully 
wrapped  in  a  black  shawl,  on  her  way  to  the  Cathe 
dral  to  pray;  an  occasional  Sister  of  Charity  and 
negro  workmen.  The  Panamanian  ladies  were  in 
their  camps  in  the  country  and  at  Taboga  Island, 
and  if  there  were  any  in  the  city  they  were  timid 
about  going  into  the  streets,  as  Panama  was  filled 
to  overflowing  with  adventurers  from  all  over  the 
world,  for  it  was  the  reconstruction  period,  and  the 
Isthmus  was  in  a  state  of  chaos.  I  had  never  seen 
such  a  variety  of  men.  There  were  men  who  rode 
fine  horses,  looking  like  cavaliers  of  olden  times. 
There  were  men  who  wore  boots  a  la  Meddowbrook, 
and  other  toggery  not  unlike  those  of  the  Meddow 
brook  Hunt  Club.  There  were  slick,  fat,  cheerful 
looking  Chinamen  who  rode  horseback  at  breakneck 
speed  in  the  early  morning  hours  and  in  the  late 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  19 

hours  of  the  afternoon.  There  were  negroes  of 
every  hue,  from  shiny-black  to  that  peculiar  red- 
brown  shade  that  denotes  the  dividing  line.  There 
were  numbers  of  coaches  drawn  hither  and  thither 
filled  to  overflowing  with  men,  black,  white  and 
brown.  I  had  been  looking  at  them  from  my  bal 
cony  for  several  days,  and  at  last  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  go  into  the  street  among  them.  I  would 
sally  forth  in  the  late  hours  of  the  afternoon,  and 
would  usually  walk  to  Ancon  to  make  enquiries 
about  my  husband,  and,  unless  I  happened  to  be 
fortunate  enough  to  find  a  coach  that  was  not  en 
gaged,  I  walked  back,  "a  foolhardy  thing  to  do  in 
those  days,"  said  the  hotel  clerk  in  tones  which  de 
noted  that  he  considered  me  very  much  under  his 
protection.  At  first  men  leered  at  me,  but  after  a 
time  they  passed  me  with  averted  gaze.  They  not 
infrequently  got  out  of  coaches  and  invited  me  to 
get  in.  They  knew  that  the  demand  for  coaches  was 
greater  than  the  supply,  and  it  became  generally 
known  that  I  was  alone  and  that  my  husband  was 
ill  in  the  Ancon  Hospital.  I  soon  began  to  learn 
who  were  Americans,  because,  no  matter  how  drunk 
they  appeared  to  be,  whenever  I  met  them  on  the 
streets  of  Panama  they  showed  me  some  courtesy, 
which  plainly  said:  "We're  with  you,  and  we  feel 
sorry  for  you." 


20  DROLL  STORIES 

Negroes  worked  slowly  in  the  streets  under  a 
broiling  sun.  They  were  paving  Panama's  streets 
with  brick  at  this  time.  It  seemed  a  hopeless  task, 
as  viewed  through  a  woman's  eyes.  Mr.  Durham 
had  begun  the  work,  but  made  slow  progress,  be 
cause  of  the  restrictions  imposed  upon  him.  How 
ever,  he  must  have  been  a  man  of  courage  to  under 
take  such  a  work  at  that  time.  Mr.  J.  G.  Holcomb 
subsequently  brought  the  work  to  a  successful  com 
pletion.  Something  more  impelling  than  a  desire 
to  earn  $6,000  or  $7,000  a  year  must  have  prompted 
these  men  to  undertake  to  remodel  the  misshapen 
city  of  Panama,  where  the  filth  of  three  hundred 
years  had  accumulated.  When  the  work  was  about 
finished,  Mr.  Holcomb  was  coolly  discharged.  The 
Panamanian  Government,  however,  retained  him, 
for  the  Panamanians  knew  how  much  they  were 
really  indebted  to  him.  Colombia  had  never 
done  anything  for  Panama,  and  most  of  the 
city's  streets  were  mere  zigzag  mounds  of  un 
wholesome  red  clay.  The  common  people  had 
never  formed  habits  of  cleanliness,  and  it  was  an 
interesting  sight  to  see  the  sanitary  squad  at  work 
cleaning  out  their  houses.  I  often  paused  in  my 
rambles  to  watch  them.  Two  great  wagons,  con 
taining  barrels  filled  with  oil  and  disinfectants,  were 
drawn  up  to  the  doors  of  the  houses  which  were  to 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  21 

be  cleaned.  A  rubber  hose  would  be  attached  to  the 
street  hydrant  and,  after  the  rooms  were  carefully 
prepared  with  disinfectants,  the  water  would  be 
turned  on  and  a  number  of  men  would  proceed  to 
scrub  the  ceilings,  walls  and  floors.  Then  the  oil 
would  be  sprinkled  upon  the  spots  outside  which 
were  thought  might  be  breeding-places  for  mos 
quitoes.  That  rubbish,  which  is  so  dear  to  the  heart 
of  every  housekeeper  in  the  world,  and  which  is  to 
be  found  in  a  greater  or  less  degree  in  the  house  of 
the  banker  and  laborer  alike,  when  discovered  in  the 
houses  of  the  poor  Panamanians,  was  confiscated  by 
order  of  the  head  of  the  sanitation  department  and 
conveyed  outside  of  the  city  and  burned.  In  this 
way  Panama  was  converted  into  the  clean,  well- 
ordered  city  it  is  to-day,  and  to  Colonel  Gorgas  is 
due  the  credit  of  having  made  it  so. 

One  afternoon  while  on  my  way  to  Ancon  Hos 
pital  I  met  a  man  whom  I  had  known  in  Boston 
during  my  schooldays.  He  was  then  a  manufac 
turer  of  rubber  goods,  and  apparently  successful. 
Now  he  was  a  member  of  Colonel  Gorgas'  sanitary 
squad.  He  told  me  that  two  men  had  been  taken 
from  the  Central  Hotel  that  morning,  and  it  was 
found  that  they  were  suffering  from  yellow  fever. 
"You  will  not  be  allowed  to  stay  there  now,"  he 
said.  "But  what  shall  I  do?"  I  exclaimed.  "There 


22  DROLL  STORIES 

is  no  other  place  to  live."  "I  know  a  man  named 
Martin  Luther,"  replied  my  informant.  "Did  you 
ever  hear  of  him?  He's  from  Boston.  He  used  to 
be  a  labor  agent,  a  milkman,  a  real  estate  man,  a 
street  car  conductor,  a  preacher,  a  theatrical  man 
ager,  and  a  walking  delegate.  Now  he  is  superin 
tendent  of  construction  at  Ancon.  He'll  fix  you  up 
all  right.  How  would  you  like  to  live  in  a  tent 
among  the  boys  on  Ancon  Hill?"  "I  should  like 
it,"  I  said,  "but  it  would  be  a  little  irregular, 
wouldn't  it  ?  A  lone  woman  to  live  in  a  tent  among 
men?"  "Oh,  shucks!  That's  the  best  place  for 
you.  I'll  see  Martin  Luther  about  it  this  afternoon, 
and  you'll  be  moved  soon.  Martin  Luther  has  a 
tender  heart,  even  if  he  does  swear  a  blue  streak 
sometimes." 

Together  we  walked  back  to  the  hotel,  to  find 
the  sanitary  squad  at  work  cleaning  out  the  house. 
When  I  entered  my  room  I  hardly  knew  it.  It  had 
an  odor  redolent  of  disinfectants  that  delighted  me. 
The  walls  and  the  ceilings  had  been  cleaned,  and 
the  color  of  the  paint  was  quite  visible.  The  color 
had  been  thoroughly  soaked  with  the  disinfecting 
fluid,  and,  sad  to  relate,  the  mirror  was  of  no  further 
use  as  a  reflector  of  my  freckled  beauty,  for  the 
last  vestige  of  quicksilver  had  disappeared,  and 
only  the  glass  remained,  with  its  wooden  back 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  23 

showing  through  it.  I  began  to  like  the  place  now, 
and  I  decided  to  go  out  on  the  morrow  and  buy  a 
new  looking-glass.  I  decided,  too,  to  unpack  my 
books  and  pictures,  and  I  began  to  speculate  on  the 
coziness  of  my  room  when  I  should  have  it  fur 
nished  with  my  own  belongings.  The  thought  of 
it  all  gave  me  the  first  comfortable  feeling  I  had 
experienced  since  my  arrival  at  Panama.  On  the 
following  morning  I  went  out  early  and  bought  a 
pretty  tea  set  at  a  Chinese  store,  and  I  actually 
forgot  my  uneasiness  of  mind  in  the  thought  of  the 
pretty  tea  table  I  was  to  set  up.  On  my  return  to 
the  hotel  I  was  doomed  to  disappointment,  for  a 
communication  awaited  me  suggesting  that  I  pre 
pare  to  leave  the  hotel.  But  where  am  I  to  go?  I 
thought.  I  spent  a  disquieting  afternoon  specu 
lating  what  was  to  become  of  me.  The  hotel  had 
been  closed,  and,  as  far  as  I  knew,  it  was  now  quite 
sanitary,  so  I  wondered  why  I  had  been  ordered 
to  myove  in  such  a  peremptory  manner.  Late  in 
the  afternoon  a  cart  came  from  the  construction 
department  at  Ancon  for  my  trunks,  and  a  negro 
handed  me  an  envelope,  with  "I.  C.  C."  on  one  of 
its  corners.  This  startled  me,  it  had  such  an  official 
appearance,  so,  with  a  beating  heart  and  trembling 
hand,  I  opened  it  and  read  as  follows; 


24  DROLL  STORIES 

"Dear  Madam:  Give  your  trunks  to  this  nigger. 
At  eight  o'clock  to-night  a  cock-eyed  Dutchman, 
with  bowlegs,  will  call  for  you.  You  are  to  live  in 
your  husband's  tent,  which  has  been  remodeled 
for  you.  MARTIN  LUTHER,  Etc." 

On  reading  this  I  did  not  know  whether  to  laugh 
or  to  cry.  My  anxiety  had  been  somewhat  relieved, 
and  presuming  that  the  tent  was  among  those  on 
Ancon  Hill  "among  the  boys,"  I  should  be  near  to 
the  hospital.  Still  it  seemed  rather  irregular  for  a 
lone  woman  to  live  among  men,  and  in  a  tent,  I  re 
flected.  However,  1  sent  the  trunks  away,  and 
awaited  the  arrival  of  the  "cock-eyed  Dutchman." 

My  sense  of  the  aesthetic  was  somewhat  outraged 
that  such  a  person  should  be  picked  out  to  escort 
me  from  the  hotel,  especially  as  Panama  was  filled 
to  overflowing  with  stalwart  Americans.  At  eight 
o'clock  my  escort  arrived,  and  did  not  present  too 
bad  an  appearance.  He  was  a  clean-looking  little 
fellow  with  reddish  hair,  and  rather  a  scholarly 
type  of  face.  He  wore  glasses,  so  that  his  eyes 
appeared  to  be  straight,  but  his  legs  might  have 
been  a  little  bit  straighter.  However,  he  was  very 
gallant,  and  we  were  soon  on  our  way  to  Ancon. 
The  tent  was  unlike  any  other  that  I  have  seen,  as 
it  was  hemmed  in  on  all  sides  by  mosquito  netting. 
It  had  a  hardwood  floor,  and  was  comfortably  fur- 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  25 

nished.  It  had  a  tiny  veranda,  too,  which  com 
manded  a  fine  view  of  the  Pacific.  On  all  sides  of 
me  there  were  tents.  The  tent  of  Martin  Luther  was 
at  the  head  of  the  line,  and  I  was  quite  taken  with 
him,  for  he  brought  me  a  gun  and  told  me  that  the 
boys  would  be  ready  and  willing  to  protect  me  with 
their  very  lives.  This  I  subsequently  found  to  be 
quite  true.  The  boys  were  all  Americans,  and 
ranged  in  age  from  29  to  So  years.  The  most  of 
them,  were  veterans  of  the  Spanish-American  War, 
and  had  been  knocking  about  in  the  tropics  since 
that  interesting  period,  so  they  looked  upon  a  young 
white  woman,  clothed  in  white,  as  an  ethereal  being. 
My  presence  among  them  must  have  imposed  a 
strain,  for  they  talked  in  lowered  voices,  and  even 
played  poker  in  rather  a  silent  manner.  After  a 
time  the  strain  became  so  great  that  the  poker  play 
ing  was  done  in  the  tent  that  was  farthest  away 
from  mine,  and  my  evenings  thereafter  were  very 
lonely.  I  was  the  first  woman  that  had  ever  lived 
on  that  part  of  the  hill;  at  least,  that  is  what  Mait- 
land  said.  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  Maitland 
on  the  morning  after  my  arrival  on  Ancon  Hill. 
I  awoke  early,  feeling  very  hungry,  and,  looking 
out,  saw,  close  to  the  wire  netting,  an  old  black 
face.  Never  had  there  been  a  more  welcome  sight, 
as  J  had  no  means  of  procuring  breakfast. 


26  DROLL  8TORIE8 

"Good  morning,  mistress,"  said  the  voice  of 
Maitland;  "I  hope  you  slept  well."  "Good  morn 
ing,"  I  returned,  with  more  cordiality  than  one 
would  be  likely  to  show  under  other  circumstances. 
"My  name  is  Maitland,  an'  my  business  is  to  look 
after  the  tents  for  the  boys,  see  that  the  niggers 
don't  steal  their  clothes,  an'  to  keep  the  tents  clean." 
"Do  you  ever  have  any  spare  time?"  I  asked.  "Oh, 
yes,  mistress,  lots  of  it,  an'  I'll  work  for  you  if  you 
will  give  me  something  to  eat."  "But  I  am  suffer 
ing  myself  for  something  to  eat,"  I  replied.  "Well, 
that's  too  bad,"  said  Maitland,  "but  if  you  have 
some  money,  I'll  bring  you  some  beautiful  break 
fast  from  Eduardo's,  for  they  sho'  do  cook  things 
fine."  So  I  gave  him  some  money,  and  ordered 
him  to  bring  two  breakfasts.  He  soon  returned 
with  the  food,  as  disgusting  a  mess  as  was  ever 
served  to  a  human  being.  I  was  unable  to  eat  it, 
but  Maitland  sat  on  the  doorstep  and  devoured  it 
with  relish.  He  expressed  some  concern  that  I  did 
not  eat,  and  made  some  practical  suggestions.  One 
was  that  I  get  coffee  from  the  Commission  Com 
missary  at  Cristobal,  and  an  oil  stove  in  Panama. 
Later  he  found  a  Jamaican  woman,  who  cooked 
the  meals  for  me.  These  he  would  bring  to  the 
door,  and  I  really  enjoyed  them.  He  helped  me  to 
stain  the  floors  and  hang  my  pictures  and  flags,  so, 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  27 

like  Robinson  Crusoe  and  his  man  Friday,  I  settled 
down  to  the  life  with  resignation,  and  began  to  feel 
as  much  a  part  of  it  as  if  I  had  always  lived  this 
way. 

The  tent  was  one  of  the  most  picturesque  habita 
tions  in  Panama,  and  almost  every  day  something 
new  was  added  to  its  adornment.  It  had  an  old 
brass  lamp  which  had  been  brought  from  France, 
Second  Empire  style,  very  beautiful  to  look  at,  but 
very  useless  as  a  bestower  of  light.  I  had  an  old 
mahogany  desk  which  had  been  in  use  in  De 
Lesseps'  own  home,  in  the  old  French  days.  Some 
good  engravings,  relics  of  my  palmy  days  in  New 
York,  and  some  real  Persian  rugs  and  velvet  por- 
tiers  gave  the  place  the  look  of  an  Arab  shiek. 
Every  day  I  sat  alone  on  the  tiny  veranda  and  wrote 
or  read.  I  never  saw  a  woman,  and  the  men  passed 
the  tent  with  averted  gaze.  Martin  Luther  usually 
stopped  for  a  moment  to  inquire  if  I  was  all  right, 
and  if  Maitland  had  been  sober.  If  anything  un 
usual  occurred  he  would  shout  it  to  me.  In  this 
way  I  kept  a  line  on  the  world  outside  of  the  tent. 
I  seldom  went  to  the  city,  but  whenever  I  did  go 
Maitland  walked  behind  me  at  a  respectful  distance. 
One  morning  I  awoke  feeling  faint  and  sick.  I 
found  that  I  had  been  bitten  on  my  right  foot  by 
.some  insect.  I  naturally  concluded  that  it  was  a 


28  DROLL  STORIES 

tarantula.  As  the  foot  was  terribly  swollen,  I 
called  to  Maitland,  who  came  in  breathless,  and  de 
clared  that  I  had  but  a  short  time  to  live.  "Go  for 
a  doctor,"  I  gasped,  and  in  my  fright  I  began  to 
feel  the  chill,  cold  hand  of  death  at  my  heart. 

Maitland  vanished,  and  soon  returned  with  a  little 
old  man,  who  carried  a  green  carpet-bag  that  ap 
peared  to  be  filled  with  something  heavy.  The 
little  old  man  walked  as  if  he  was  very  tired,  and 
as  he  knelt  down  beside  my  chair  he  heaved  a  long, 
tired  sigh.  His  hands  were  small,  but  very  much 
knotted,  and  his  eyes  were  a  pale,  sad  blue.  He 
sat  back  upon  his  heels  and  looked  critically  at  the 
swollen  foot,  pinching  it  from  time  to  time,  and 
sighing  sadly. 

"Was  the  lady  bit  by  a  tarantula,  Doctor?"  asked 
Maitland  anxiously. 

"Ah,  yes,"  sighed  the  little  man,  kindly  stroking 
my  foot. 

"Then  I  shall  not  live  much  longer?"  said  I,  with 
a  choking  lump  in  my  throat. 

"You'll  live  just  twenty-four  hours,  unless  you 
have  .your  foot  taken  off,"  he  uttered. 

The  sincerity  of  his  tone  convinced  me  that  I 
must  be  near  the  end  of  my  life.  I  had  always 
heard  that  the  bite  of  a  tarantula  was  fatal,  so  I  ad 
vised  Maitland  to  go  for  Martin  Luther.  He  would 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  29 

have  me  sent  to  the  hospital,  and  I  would  have  my 
foot  cut  off.  I  wrote  a  few  words  of  farewell  to 
friends  and  sat,  frightened  and  still,  while  the  doc 
tor  bathed  my  foot  with  a  concoction  of  stuff,  the 
ingredients  of  which  were  vinegar,  ether,  pickle  and 
linseed  oil. 

"That  will  take  the  venom  out  of  it,"  said  the 
doctor,  with  another  sigh,  as  he  opened  the  bag 
and  drew  forth  a  number  of  old,  rusty  instruments. 
These  he  wiped  carefully  on  his  old  blue  overalls. 

Now  Maitland  returned  with  Martin  Luther,  who 
grinned  as  he  beheld  the  doctor  at  work  on  my  foot. 

"Wjell,  I'll  be  goldurned,"  said  he,  throwing  his 
hat  upon  the  floor.  "What  in  thunder  are  you  do 
ing,  Moll  ?  For  the  love  of  Mike,  don't  go  to  poison 
ing  her  foot  with  that  old  rusty  needle." 

"These  instruments  cost  my  father  a  small  for 
tune." 

"Yes,  a  hundred  years  ago,"  answered  Martin 
Luther,  with  a  disgusted  look. 

"Tie  up  her  foot,  Moll,  and  we'll  send  her  to  the 
hospital,"  said  Martin  Luther;  "and  you'd  better 
be  getting  back  on  the  job,  or  you'll  be  fired." 

"All  right,"  answered  the  little  man,  with  a 
weary  sigh,  as  he  picked  up  his  green  carpet-bag 
and  bade  me  good  morning.  Meantime  Maitland 


30  DROLL  STORIES 

had  discovered  that  I  had  been  bitten  by  a  young 
scorpion. 

"That  ain't  anything,"  said  Martin  Luther.  "I 
get  bit  every  night,  and  I  feel  better  for  it.  Moll 
would  have  cut  your  foot  off  if  I  hadn't  come." 

"Is  he  attached  to  the  hospital?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,"  replied  Martin  Luther,  with  a  chuckle,  "he 
works  for  me  in  the  carpenter  shop.  He  used  to  be 
a  doctor,  but  he  cut  a  feller's  toe  off  in  Cuba  with 
one  of  them  old  rusty  knives,  and  blood  poison  set 
in  and  the  feller  died,  so  the  medical  society  won't 
let  him  doctor  any  more.  He  made  a  mighty  good 
carpenter,  but  the  poor  old  devil  has  wheels.  Mait- 
land,  if  you  call  that  old  guy  again  when  any  one  is 
sick  or  hurt,  I'll  have  you  fired." 

"He  cured  me  of  that  evil  eye  that  the  girl  gave 
me  that  time,  an'  he's  the  best  doctor  in  the  world," 
said  Maitland. 

One  morning  it  was  announced  that  a  new  official 
had  arrived  to  dwell  in  one  of  the  three  real  cottages 
on  the  hill.  It  was  a  short  distance  from  the  line 
of  tents.  A  barbed  wire  was  the  dividing  line  be 
tween  the  tent  ground  and  the  aristocratic  residential 
section.  The  residents  of  both  sections  kept  well 
within  their  respective  bounds.  The  wife  of  the 
official  must  have  caught  a  glimpse  of  me  in  the 
distance  on  the  day  of  her  arrival,  for  she  wrote  a 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  31 

note  that  night  to  Martin  Luther,  which  read  some 
thing  like  this: 

"Sir — You  will  please  send  to  my  house  to 
morrow  morning  the  woman  who  lives  in  the  tent 
beside  yours.  I  have  not  been  used  to  black  ser 
vants,  and  I  can't  bear  to  have  them  wait  upon  me. 
I  will  give  her  fifty  cents,  gold,  a  day,  and  her  meals, 
and  she  can  have  a  room  on  my  back  veranda.  I 
shall  need  her  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning.  I  hope 
her  character  is  good." 

This  was  kept  from  me,  but  a  consultation  was 
held,  and  one  of  the  tent  dwellers,  who  had  been  a 
lawyer  in  the  days  before  the  Spanish-American 
War,  dictated  a  pungent  letter  to  the  wife  of  the 
official,  which  enlightened  her  as  to  the  respective 
classes  to  which  both  she  and  I  belonged.  She  was 
told  in  part  that  the  woman  in  the  tent  was  a  grad 
uate  of  Wellesley  College,  and  had  never  been 
obliged  to  even  wait  upon  herself. 

The  official  and  his  lady  were  invited  to  come 
to  my  tent  and  to  size  me  up  and  see  for  themselves 
whether  the  woman  in  the  tent  was  the  sort  of  a 
person  who  would  make  a  fancy  laundress  or  not. 

On  the  morning  following  Mrs.  Official  paid  me 
a  visit,  and  not  only  sized  me  up  to  her  heart's  con 
tent,  but  asked  me  questions  until  I  thought  myself 
on  a  witness  stand  on  trial  for  my  life.  Then,  after 


32  DROLL  STORIES 

offering  to  buy  from  me,  at  her  own  price,  the 
pretty  furnishings  in  the  tent,  she  departed,  and  I 
have  never  seen  her  since. 

One  morning  news  was  brought  to  me  that  the 
little  old  doctor  was  arrested  and  was  sent  to  Chiri- 
qui  prison.  Maitland  burst  out  crying  when  I  asked 
him  about  it,  and  declared  that,  as  there  was  a  God, 
the  doctor  would  soon  be  again  free  to  cure  the  evil 
and  all  the  other  ills  to  which  black  humanity  is  heir. 


ARRIVAL  AT  PANAMA  NINE  YEARS  AGO. 


T 


(PART  III.) 

HE  new  official  and  his  wife,  to  whom 
I  have  already  alluded,  had  both  been 
in  Cuba  during  the  war  between  the 
United  States  and  the  Spaniards.  The 
woman  had  some  years  before  the  war 
had  a  manicuring  and  shampooing 
establishment  at  Havana,  but  when 
the  American  troops  came  pouring  in  she  decided  to 
turn  her  parlors  into  a  barber  shop.  So  she  shaved 
troops  with  much  success,  and  married  a  Rough 
Rider  in  T.  R.'s  famous  troops  of  cavaliers. 

When  T.  R.  became  President  of  the  U.  S.  A.  he 
gave  this  particular  Rough  Rider  the  only  position 
that  he  could  fill.  He  was  an  illiterate  man,  but  he 
was  imbued  with  a  social  bug,  and  he  had  a  dream 
of  becoming  a  prominent  social  lion  on  the  Isthmus. 
The  fair  barberess  was  good-looking,  vivacious,  a 
good  dancer,  and  a  lady  of  good  style.  Judge  of 
the  surprise  of  the  official  pair  upon  their  arrival  on 
Ancon  Hill  to  find  that  virgin  spot  was  dotted  with 
tents  in  which  lived  the  soldiers  of  fortune  whom 


34  DROLL  STORIES 

the  lady  had  shaved  in  the  dreaming  old  war  days. 

"We  sure  are  in  bad,"  said  the  official.  "Here's 
the  whole  bunch  of  chumps  that  used  to  be  in  Ha 
vana." 

"Goodness  gracious!"  exclaimed  the  lady;  "what 
shall  we  do  ?  Even  old  Dr.  Moll  is  here.  Now  he'll 
tell  every  one  that  I  was  a  barber  and  that  he  loving 
ly  called  me  the  little  shaver." 

"If  he  does  I'll  have  the  old  devil  put  in  jail,"  said 
the  official. 

The  presence  of  the  old-time  acquaintances  had 
been  made  known  to  the  official  pair  by  Martin 
Luther,  upon  their  request  to  have  me  sent  to  them 
as  a  servant. 

"What — what  do  you  suppose?"  said  the  little 
old  doctor  to  Martin  Luther.  "Mike  is  here,  and  is 
now  an  official.  We  were  all  awfully  fond  of  her 
when  she  used  to  shave  us.  I  wonder  will  she 
notice  us  now."  • 

"Not  on  your  life,"  answered  Martin  L. 

The  lawyer,  who  occupied  one  of  the  tents,  and 
who  was  regularly  employed  as  a  timekeeper  in  one 
of  the  nearby  offices,  gave  the  doctor  some  good 
advice,  as  follows:  "If  you  pretend  that  you  ever 
knew  Mike  and  the  little  shaver  in  the  old  war  days, 
you'll  find  yourself  floating  around  at  high  tide  in 
Qhiriqui  prison,  for  you  know  that  Mike  was  a^ 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  35 

snob,  and  now  that  he  has  this  official  position,  he'll 
put  it  all  over  us,  even  though  we  all  fared  alike 
in  the  corral  in  Havana." 

"She  was  always  good  and  nice  to  me,  and  when 
I  told  her  once  that  I  loved  her  she  was  real  sorry 
that  she  was  in  love  with  Mike  instead  of  me." 

"So  you  told  her  you  loved  her,  did  you  ?  Well, 
I  see  your  finish.  Mike  will  never  allow  a  man  to 
live  that  once  was  a  suitor  for  the  hand  of  the  little 
shaver,  especially  a  nwi  who  is  working  in  the  car 
penter  shop." 

"She'll  be  glad  to  see  us  all,"  said  the  little  doctor, 
with  the  conviction  that  every  one  on  earth  had  a 
nature  as  simple  and  noble  as  his  own. 

Two  days  later  he  was  arrested  for  stealing  one 
thousand  dollars  from  his  room  mate,  who  had  the 
money  tied  up  in  the  sleeve  of  an  old  coat,  which 
was  kept  in  a  trunk  in  one  corner  of  the  tent  in 
which  the  two  men  lived.  The  official  measured 
carefully  the  ground  on  which  the  tent  stood,  and 
found  that  the  part  of  the  trunk  in  which  the  coat 
lay  was  on  Panamanian  territory.  He  therefore 
turned  the  poor  little  old  doctor  over  to  the  Pana 
manian  authorities,  and  the  gentle  little  old  man 
was  handcuffed  to  a  negro  murderer,  and,  while 
the  crowds  looked  on  and  jeered,  he  was  led  through 
the  streets  of  Panama  to  Chiriqui  prison,  where  he 


36  DROLL  STORIES 

was  kept  for  five  months,  until  a  kind-hearted  Pana 
manian  lawyer  investigated  the  matter  and  learned 
that  the  money  had  been  found  three  days  after  the 
little  old  man  had  been  committed. 

Then  the  little  old  doctor  was  liberated  from  Chi- 
riqui  prison  and  resumed  his  occupation  in  the  car 
penter  shop,  with  bowed  head  and  broken  spirit. 
His  old  comrades  endeavored  to  cheer  him,  but,  in 
spite  of  the  gentleness  of  his  nature,  he  nursed  the 
terrible  wrong  until  it  became  a  nightmare.  He  had 
a  fear  that  the  official  called  Mike  was  plotting 
against  his  life,  and  he  began  to  have  dreams  that 
he  thought  came  true.  Each  evening  he  sought  his 
best  friends  and  told  them  that  he  had  not  long  to 
live.  He  would  conjure  up  a  picture  for  them  of 
his  mother  and  father,  who  were  dead  about  twenty 
years,  and  of  an  old  sweetheart  called  Betty,  whose 
father,  away  back  in  old  Virginia,  was  not  only  a 
colonel,  but  a  judge  as  well.  He  would  stand  in 
the  center  of  a  group  of  his  friends  and  tell  them 
that  he  could  close  his  eyes  and  see  his  dead  loved 
one.  "There  they  are  now,"  he  would  say. 
"There's  little  Betty,  like  a  pink  and  white  carna 
tion,  and  there's  the  judge  and  colonel  sitting  beside 
Betty  and  looking  lovingly  at  her  like  he  used  to 
when  I  used  to  go  to  court  her.  Ah,  see,  she  loves  me 
still,  and  I'll  soon  be  with  her,  boys."  At  first  the 


Off  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  37 

men  tried  to  soothe  him,  but  after  a  time  they  de 
cided  to  agree  with  him  that  his  end  was  at  hand, 
and  this,  as  Martin  L.  put  it,  "made  the  wheels  go 
round  faster,"  and  the  little  old  man  became  quite  ill 
in  anticipation  of  his  coming  demise.  Then  he  was 
sent  to  Taboga  to  recuperate,  and  there  he  fell 
madly  in  love  with  a  young  nurse,  and  became,  as  a 
result,  quite  restored  to  his  normal  frame  of  mind. 

Meantime  Mike  and  the  little  shaver  were  leading 
society  by  the  nose,  as  the  tent  lawyer  tritely  put  it. 
They  had  moved  into  a  more  palatial  dwelling  house 
and  were  entertaining  foreign  ministers  and  their 
ladies,  while  their  old-time  friends  of  the  dreamy 
old  war  days  spent  their  waking  hours  of  leisure 
playing  poker. 

I  had  lived  in  the  tent  five  months,  and  the  time 
for  me  to  depart  to  the  United  States  was  drawing 
to  a  close.  Every  day  for  five  months  I  had  sat  on 
the  piazza  and  gazed  upon  the  lovely  Pacific  in  all 
its  splendor.  Every  night  during  that  time  I  listened 
to  the  quiet  games  of  poker  that  were  being  played 
about  me,  and  I  heard  the  exultant  shouts  of  the 
revellers  as  they  cheered  the  performers  in  the  can- 
tina  of  Edmardillo,  as  they  bounded  to  the  fandango 
and  wriggled  to  the  bolero.  In  all  the  five  months 
no  woman  ever  called  upon  me,  and  I  can  safely 
say  that  never  in  my  life  have  I  had  so  long  a  period 


38  DROLL  STORIES 

of  perfect  peace.  Finally  the  day  came  when  I  was 
to  sail  away  to  the  U.  S.  A.,  and  I  impartially  dis 
tributed  the  furnishings  of  the  tent  among  the  other 
tent  residents.  The  little  doctor  declined  to  accept 
anything  of  commercial  value,  but  he  begged  to  be 
allowed  to  take  as  a  souvenir  a  lock  of  my  hair.  He 
finally  consented  taking  a  photograph  which  some 
one  of  the  tent  dwellers  had  taken  of  me  as  I  sat 
reading  on  the  tent  piazza.  On  the  ninth  of  July, 
with  a  sad  heart,  I  left  the  hill  to  go  to  New  York. 
The  tent  dwellers  accompanied  me  to  Colon  and 
stood  in  a  group,  waving  their  handkerchiefs  until 
the  ship  was  out  of  sight.  With  the  exception  of 
three,  I  have  never  seen  them  since.  When  I  re 
turned  two  years  later  I  found  that  they  were  scat 
tered  far  and  wide.  Many  are  now  in  California, 
in  Ecuador,  in  Brazil,  in  Peru,  in  Alaska,  and  many 
of  them  are  dead.  But  the  most  pleasant  experience 
of  my  life  was  the  months  in  the  tent  on  Ancon  Hill, 
and  I  shall  always  remember  with  gratitude  the 
chivalry  and  kindness  with  which  I  was  treated  by 
the  poor  soldiers  of  fortune  when  I  was  alone, 
friendless  and  a  stranger  in  Panama. 

Two  years  later  I  alighted  from  a  train  at  Panama 
and  was  driven  to  the  Tivoli  Hotel.  There  was  to 
be  a  ball  there  that  night,  and  I  sat  in  the  lobby  and 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  39 

watched  the  smiling  throng  passing  from  the  dining- 
room  to  the  ballroom  and  balconies. 

Men  and  women  in  correct  evening  dress  stood 
about  in  groups  and  chatted  with  an  expectant  air, 
as  if  some  one  of  consequence  was  yet  to  arrive. 
Soft  lights  glowed  in  the  ballroom,  and  there  was 
good  music. 

The  revellers  were  beginning  to  consult  their  pro 
grams,  and  in  less  than  five  minutes  I  would  be 
alone  in  the  lobby.  I  felt  a  sadness  steal  upon  me, 
and  I  began  to  wonder  where  I  was,  when,  lo !  who 
should  come  downstairs  but  Martin  Luther. 

My  heart  leaped.  He  was  clad  in  khaki  and 
leather  leggins,  and  carried  his  cowboy  hat  in  his 
hand. 

"Well,  so  you're  back  again.  What  do  you  think 
of  this?"  said  he,  by  way  of  greeting. 

"It  is  like  a  scene  in  fairyland,"  I  replied.  "What 
does  it  mean,  and  who  are  all  these  people?  What 
hotel  is  this?" 

"Don't  you  know  any  of  'em?"  he  asked. 

"No,  not  one,"  I  replied. 

"Well,  some  of  them  are  the  main  guys,  an' 
many  of  'em  are  just  carpenters,  plumbers,  steam- 
fitters,  steam-shovel  men  and  powder  men,  and  the 
washed-out,  conceited-looking  guys  are  $125  doc- 


40  DROLL  STORIES 

tors  and  clerks.  They  were  all  here  in  your  time, 
but  they  didn't  buck  up  to  this  gait  then." 

"But  what  hotel  is  this?"  I  asked. 

"Why,  it's  the  Tivoli,  and  this  is  the  Tivoli  Club 
that's  dancing.  They  were  just  going  to  start  this 
building  when  you  were  here  two  years  ago." 

"It  is  all  very  wonderful,"  1  replied. 

"Well,  wait  till  you  hear  all  about  it.  Bates,  he's 
a  carpenter;  and  Barrett,  a  policeman;  and  Norman, 
a  guy  that  shins  up  electric  light  poles  and  is  a 
cousin  of  Shanklin,  the  American  Consul — he's  here 
to-night.  Awhile  ago  they  got  their  heads  together, 
an'  they  thought  'twould  be  a  good  idea  to  get  their 
best  girls  an'  have  a  dance  here  every  Saturday 
night.  They  are  all  getting  good  pay,  so  they  sent 
to  the  States  for  swallowtail  suits  an'  they  started. 
Well,  they  hired  musicians  in  Panama,  and  the  girls 
looked  so  swell  that  some  other  guys  got  in. 

"Notices  got  in  the  papers  in  Panama,  and  the 
highbrows  began  to  get  interested,  so  they  tried  to 
get  the  ballroom  away  from  the  fellows  that  started 
the  thing,  and  when  that  didn't  work  they  came 
right  along  to  the  dances  without  saying  'By  your 
leave,'  and  here  they  are,  dancing  to  beat  the  band, 
and  as  bold  as  brass." 

"Where  are  the  men  who  used  to  live  in  the 
tents?"  I  asked. 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  41 

"They've  gone  away  to  Brazil,  to  Peru,  to  Ecua 
dor  and  to  Alaska.  They  didn't  like  this  civilized 
business;  they'd  rather  be  in  some  new  country, 
where  there  ain't  no  style.  Them  fellows  were  men 
of  the  world. 

"Catch  on  to  that  little  man  with  the  whiskers 
on  his  chin?  He's  the  guy  that  has  the  soft  snap. 
He's  running  a  little  paper  about  the  size  of  a  post 
age  stamp,  and  he  has  seven  other  guys,  probably 
relatives,  assisting  in  the  editing  of  it.  He  has  the 
finest  house  on  Ancon  Hill,  a  pair  of  horses,  two  car 
riages,  two  saddle  horses,  one  for  himself  and  one 
for  his  daughter,  and  twelve  thousand  a  year. 
Looks  like  a  slick  guy,  don't  he?  He's  got  his  first 
dollar,  an',  what  do  you  think?  His  house  stands 
right  where  your  tent  used  to  stand.  The  hill  is 
covered  with  beautiful  houses  now." 

So  Martin  Luther  chatted  on  as  I  watched,  fasci 
nated,  the  late  comers. 

"Suppose  we  go  to  the  ballroom  and  watch  'em 
caper — see  the  snobs  an'  the  two-cent  nobodies,  eh  ? 
I  ain't  in  a  swallowtail  coat,  but  every  one  knows 
me,  and  they  know  that  I've  been  up  in  the  roof 
tryin'  to  stop  a  leak." 

I  followed  him  into  the  ballroom,  and  he  gal 
lantly  offered  me  his  arm  and  led  me  to  a  seat. 

Each  man  danced  with  his  wife,  daughter  or 


42  DROLL  8TOEIES 

sweetheart,  and  if  he  happened  to  be  without  either 
he  sat  and  looked  on  with  arms  folded  upon  his 
breast.  Elderly  ladies  sat  straight  against  the  wall, 
their  hands  folded,  and  a  patient  smile  upon  their 
faded  faces.  An  iciness  clutched  my  very  soul  as  I 
sat  mute  while  Luther  talked. 

"There's  Bates,  the  best  carpenter  I  have,  and 
he's  rigged  up  like  a  scarecrow.  Look  at  the  white 
shoes  and  red  stockings  and  red  necktie — things 
that  no  one  but  a  fool  would  wear  with  a  swallow 
tail  suit.  There's  Mike  Lyman,  wearing  a  yellow 
soft  shirt,  when  he  ought  to  wear  a  boiled  one,  and, 
doggone  it,  look  at  Dodson.  He's  got  on  a  blue 
tie,  russet  shoes  and  a  watch  chain  with  a  shark's 
tooth  mounted  on  it  that  would  moor  a  ship.  Wait 
till  to-morrow  when  I  see  them  guys.  I'll  have 
some  fun  with  them.  Catch  on  to  Red  Mike  and 
the  little  shaver.  And  there's  Garabaldi  and  Major 
Brooks.  They  are  the  real  thing,  but  Garabaldi 
can't  get  any  one  to  dance  with  him,  because  he 
don't  put  on  lugs;  he's  just  a  simple  chap,  but  he's 
good-looking,  ain't  he?  He's  a  grandson  of  that 
old  general  who  put  the  Pope  in  prison,  or  some 
thing  like  that. 

"Some  fellows  tried  to  tell  me  that  Garabaldi 
was  only  the  name  of  a  race  horse  on  Long  Island. 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  43 

Well,  anyway,  no  one  has  anything  to  do  with  him 
but  Major  Brooks. 

"Do  you  see  that  old  guy  over  there  with  the 
glassy  bald  head  that  looks  like  a  cross  between  a 
barn  door  and  a  wooden  leg?  Well,  he's  another 
guy  that's  got  a  soft  snap.  He  lives  on  the  hill, 
and  his  house  stands  right  where  my  tent  used  to 
be.  He  got  in  trouble  here  in  the  Tivoli  once  be 
cause  he  was  fresh  with  the  black  chambermaids." 

While  all  this  gossip  was  being  poured  into  my 
ear  I  sized  up  the  ensemble,  which  was  a  pleasant 
picture.  When  supper  was  served  there  was  a 
grand  rush  for  the  dining-room  that  seemed  like 
the  sort  of  stampede  one  might  see  at  a  bargain  sale 
on  Sixth  Avenue,  New  York.  A  more  motley  crew 
never  blended  together  at  any  function.  Every 
craft  and  profession  had  a  representative,  and  there 
were  at  the  Tivoli  that  night  one  or  more  persons 
from  every  nation  in  the  world. 


MR.    COMSTOCK'S    ARRIVAL. 


M 


R.  COMSTOCK'S  arrival  at  Panama 
created  almost  as  much  stir  as  did  the 
arrival  of  the  much  beloved  and  re 
spected  T.  R.,  for  it  was  rumored 
among  Americans  on  Ancon  Hill  that 
John  Drew  was  in  town.  "Well,  say, 
the  theatrical  business  must  be  on  the 
bum,"  said  the  veterans,  one  to  another.  "Surely 
he  is  not  going  to  play  at  Edmarrillos."  The  sub 
ject  of  their  comments — <the  man  who  looked  like 
John  Drew — had  recently  come  to  the  Isthmus  to 
work  in  the  timekeeping  office  at  Ancon.  "Good 
morning,  Mr.  Drew,"  said  a  young  clerk,  as  Mr. 
Comstock  appeared,  ready  for  induction  into  the 
mysteries  of  his  new  position.  "My  dear  young 
man,"  he  replied,  "my  name  is  not  Drew.  1  am 
Arthur  Algernon  Comstock,  of  London,  of  the  Sur 
rey  Comstocks,  grandson  of  Lord  Algernon  Percival 
Fillbois,  and  nephew  of  Percival  Gibbon  Comstock, 
Lord  Bishop  of  Hounslow." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Comstock,"  said  the 
clerk  humbly.    "We  thought  you  were  John  Drew, 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  45 

because  you  look  exactly  like  him."  "Dear  me! 
How  very  singular,"  replied  Mr.  Comstock.  "Why, 
it  is  nothing  short  of  libel  to  compare  a  brute  like 
myself  to  such  a  well-behaved  chap  as  John 
Drew,  and  it  is  iniquitous  and  unnatural  that  a  Com 
stock,  of  Comstock  Lodge,  Surrey,  should  even  re 
semble  an  actor.  I  am  quite  amazed,  really  I  am. 
Dear!  dear!  how  my  aunt,  the  Lady  Maria  Derald 
Fillbois,  would  laugh  if  she  were  to  know  that  these 
Yankee  chaps  were  calling  me  Mr.  Drew.  Fas 
tidious  chap,  John  Drew.  Here,  my  dear  fellow, 
have  a  smoke,"  handing  the  young  man  his  ivory 
cigar  case,  lined  with  gold.  It  was  well  filled  with 
cigars  of  a  better  quality  than  were  to  be  found  at 
that  time  at  Panama,  and  it  bore  the  Comstock  coat 
of  arms. 

It  soon  became  generally  known  that  there  was 
a  lord,  or  duke,  or  something  of  the  sort,  working 
in  the  office  of  the  chief  timekeeper,  who  was  a  good 
old  sport,  likeable,  and  democratic  in  his  ways,  just 
like  an  American,  only  his  expressions  of  speech 
were  a  bit  queer.  From  time  to  time  fragments  of 
anecdote  were  related  to  me  as  having  come  from 
the  well-stored  mind  of  Mr.  Comstock.  This  plain 
ly  told  me  that  he  was  a  man  of  some  erudition. 
There  was  a  very  clever  toast  which  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  giving  when  in  his  cups.  It  appears  to  have 


46  DROLL  STORIES 

been  written  by  one  Sir  Fitzhugh  Clavering  Corn- 
stock,  and  was  said  to  be  both  brilliant  and  mirth- 
provoking.  The  most  humble  of  the  Americans  on 
Ancon  Hill  had  a  copy  of  it,  but,  strange  to  say,  I 
was  never  permitted  to  hear  the  words,  and  am, 
therefore,  unable  to  give  them  to  my  readers. 

It  became  a  popular  diversion  to  listen  to  the 
story  of  Mr.  Comstock's  life,  as  told  by  himself, 
and  it  ran  about  as  follows:  "My  mother  was  the 
Lady  Elizabeth  Howard  Derald  Fillbois,  a  beautiful 
but  delicate  woman,  and  my  father  was  James  Per- 
cival  Comstock,  brother  of  the  present  Lord  Bishop 
of  Hounslow.  My  father  was  a  perfect  devil  for 
sport,  poor  chap.  He,  it  seems,  neglected  to  cherish 
my  mother,  and  soon  after  my  birth  she  died,  her 
family  said,  of  a  broken  heart.  Then  my  father 
went  to  travel  on  the  Continent,  and  never  returned 
to  England  again.  He  died  a  few  years  ago,  poor 
old  chap.  He  had  many  affaires  d'amour,  poor 
chap.  It  quite  saddens  me  to  think  of  them.  Really, 
I  wonder  how  he  ever  came  out  of  some  of  them 
without  losing  his  honor.  I  became  acquainted 
with  him  when  I  myself  traveled  on  the  Continent, 
and  I  became  quite  fond  of  his  society.  His  family 
and  friends  got  on  his  nerves,  and  he  abominated 
his  own  country  people,  the  English.  My  brother 
and  myself  were  taken  at  the  time  of  my  mother's 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  47 

death  by  my  aunt,  the  Lady  Maria  Howard  Derald 
Fillbois,  my  mother's  only  sister,  who  was  a  very 
strong-minded  but  fascinating  woman,  and  who 
took  a  notion  to  forsake  her  lover  at  the  altar  in 
the  presence  of  half  of  the  aristocracy  of  England. 

"She  was  a  kindly  woman,  with  a  strong  sense  of 
humor,  but  was  horribly  stingy  with  us  boys.  The 
village  folk  loved  her. 

"Well,  she  had  kennels  filled  with  the  finest  dogs 
in  the  United  Kingdom,  and,  oh,  horrors!  she 
obliged  my  brother  and  myself  to  pick  the  fleas 
from  the  brutes  in  order  to  earn  spending  money. 
An  old  Irishman  named  Tim  Burden  stood  over  us 
and  counted  the  fleas,  for  each  one  of  which  we  re 
ceived  a  ha'penny. 

"At  one  time  we  became  so  outraged  at  the  in 
dignity  that  we  wrote  to  our  father  and  complained 
to  him.  He,  bounder  that  he  was,  treacherously 
sent  our  letter,  with  a  very  complimentary  one 
inclosed,  to  the  Lady  Maria.  'If  it  were  not  for 
the  Deceased  Wife's  Sister  Prohibitive  Marriage 
Law,'  wrote  he,  'I  should  ask  you  for  your  hand 
and  heart  in  marriage,  for  your  way  of  managing 
my  sons,  the  Comstock  boys,  not  only  proves  you 
to  be  a  woman  of  deep  penetration,  but  one  with  a 
most  logical  mind  and  most  practical  sense  of 
humor.  It  is  no  wonder  that  you  have  always 


48  DROLL  STORIES 

been  considered  to  be  a  female  far  above  the  other 
silly  members  of  your  sex." 

"The  dogs  were  named  after  my  aunt's  favorite 
characters  in  history,  viz.,  Abraham  Lincoln,  Lord 
Byron,  Napoleon,  Beau  Brummel,  Nell  Gynn, 
Martha  Washington  and  George  Washington,  re 
spectively.  There  were,  too,  many  others  whose 
names  I  forget. 

"We  were  so  keen  about  earning  half-pennies 
that  we  spent  the  greater  part  of  each  day  hunting 
fleas,  and  the  dogs,  thinking  us  unselfish  in  ridding 
them  of  such  torment,  grew  to  be  inordinately  fond 
of  us,  and  it  looked  at  times,  indeed,  as  if  the  pests 
were  becoming  extinct,  for  we  often  hunted  for 
them  for  hours  in  vain.  This  last  was  a  discour 
aging  development  for  us,  and  we  induced  old  Tim 
Burden  to  report  for  us  and  complain  to  our  aunt, 
in  the  hope  that  she  would  give  us  a  few  pennies 
as  a  token  of  gratitude,  but  she  would  merely  look 
solemn  and  say:  'Is  it  not  good  to  know  that  a 
Comstock  has  really  earned  some  money  by  the 
sweat  of  his  brow,  and,  in  addition,  relieved  a  fellow- 
being  of  torment?'  Then  you  compare  us  to 
brutes,'  said  my  brother  on  one  occasion,  he  having 
observed  the  comparison.  'No!  no!'  replied  she, 
'a  Comstock  could  never  be  compared  with  nobility 
to  my  magnificent,  well-bred  dogs.  Abraham 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  49 

i 

Lincoln  is  the  most  noble  animal  in  England.  I 
named  him  after  Lincoln  because  he  saved  a  little 
negro  child  from  drowning  at  Brighton  Beach.' 

"I  subsequently  learned  that  the  Comstocks  were 
devils  for  all  kinds  of  sport.  The  fire  was  in  my 
blood  at  an  early  age,  too,  and  the  Lady  Maria  knew 
the  symptoms.  As  we  became  expert  at  flea-catch 
ing  it  became  less  repugnant  to  us,  and  in  the  end 
we  developed  an  interest  in  the  little  pests  that 
quite  pleased  my  aunt.  We  began  to  discern  the 
difference  in  their  social  and  physical  habits  to  a 
degree  which  threatened  to  affect  our  future.  Our 
aunt  now  hinted  at  our  becoming  naturalists,  and, 
strange  to  say,  my  brother  actually  became  one,  and 
to-day  is  considered  an  authority  not  only  on  the 
flea,  but  every  variety  of  insect  as  well.  What  a 
disgusting  occupation! 

"At  the  age  of  16  I  was  placed  in  the  counting- 
house  of  an  American  banking  firm  in  London.  The 
banker  was  a  decent  fellow,  fastidious  and  all  that, 
not  a  bit  crude,  and  he  had  the  greatest  admiration 
for  the  Lady  Maria.  At  18  I  had  an  affair  with  a 
village  girl  named  Anna  Shakespeare.  She  was  a 
very  good-looking  girl,  of  a  magnetic  temperament, 
and  my  aunt  was  rather  fond  of  her.  Though  of 
tender  years,  my  young  ideas  had  been  shooting 
rather  promiscuously  for  some  time.  The  girl  had 


,50  DROLL  STORIES 

taken  to  the  affair  ad  libitum,  and  I  was  making 
plans  to  have  her  come  to  lodgings  in  London,  as 
there  had  been  quite  some  talk  in  the  village  at 
home,  which  had  upset  my  aunt  terribly.  Anna 
was  to  leave  the  village  secretly,  after  which  we 
were  to  repair  to  our  future  home.  I  was  delighted 
with  the  prospect  of  having  the  girl  with  me,  and  I 
went  to  the  meeting  place  with  my  heart  filled  with 
delightful  emotions,  when,  what  do  you  think? 
I  was  met  by  the  bounder  of  a  banker,  the  Lady 
Maria,  and  my  uncle,  the  then  Rev.  Percival  Gibbon 
Comstock.  I  was  astounded,  and  stood  rooted  to 
the  spot,  as  the  novelists  say.  The  perspiration 
rolled  from  my  forehead  in  the  most  disgusting 
profusion,  and  I  was  unable  to  speak.  Lady  Maria 
advanced  and  held  out  her  hand,  upon  which  I  be 
stowed  a  clammy  kiss.  There  was  a  light  in  her 
eyes  as  they  met  mine.  At  this  moment  Anna  en 
tered,  flushed  and  excited,  but,  on  finding  that  my 
relatives  were  with  me,  started  to  withdraw,  when 
my  aunt  caught  her  and  held  her  firmly.  'You  will 
kiss  your  sweetheart,  Arthur,'  said  she,  in  a  banter 
ing  tone.  I  hung  my  head  and  looked  furtively  at 
Anna.  'We  have  come  to  witness  your  marriage 
to  Anna,'  said  my  uncle.  'Upon  my  word,  you 
have  not,'  said  I,  waking  up.  'Oh,  yes,  we  have,' 
put  in  my  aunt.  'You  have  hurt  Anna's  character, 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  51 

and,  in  consequence,  she  has  been  made  to  feel  very 
unhappy.  She  has  lost  her  young  man,  and  the 
village  folk  have  slandered  her.'  'Your  under 
gardener,  William-,'  I  put  in,  'is  very  anxious  to 
marry  Anna.  That  will  be  better,'  said  my  Uncle 
Percival.  The  time  has  gone  by,'  said  my  aunt, 
'when  under  gardeners  feel  it  incumbent  upon  them 
to  shoulder  the  responsibilities  of  their  masters.' 
The  situation  was  becoming  intolerable,  when  the 
American  laughingly  said :  'Perhaps  the  young  lady 
has  something  to  say  about  the  matter.'  As  he 
spoke  he  eyed  Anna's  trim  form  approvingly,  and, 
by  Jove!  I  felt  jealous.  'Arthur  sent  for  me  to 
come  up  to  London,  and  I  came  just  to  see  things, 
and  to  have  a  good  time.  He  didn't  say  anything 
about  getting  married,'  added  Anna.  'What  did  he 
say?'  asked  the  Lady  Maria,  with  calmness.  'He 
said  he'd  always  be  a  friend  to  me,  and  that  he'd 
love  me  almost  to  death,'  replied  Anna.  The  boy 
is  not  unlike  any  other  English  boy  of  his  class,' 
declared  my  Uncle  Percival.  'It  is  hopeful  and 
wholesome  in  him  to  develop  a  fondness  for  the 
opposite  sex  at  his  age.  I  was  not  a  saint  myself,' 
he  confessed,  with  a  slight  cough.  The  Corn- 
stocks,'  he  continued,  'were  always  a  hot-blooded 
set  of  men,  and  terrific  wine-drinkers  for  centuries, 
but  we  have  been  ever  careful  to  marry  with  females 


52  DROLL  STORIES 

of  our  own  degree.'  The  Shakespeares  came  from 
Adam,  or  whatever  other  sort  of  animal  was  respon 
sible  for  our  being,  and  so  did  the  brutal  and  licen 
tious  Comstocks,'  said  the  Lady  Maria,  with  flash 
ing  eyes,  'and  what  is  most  needed  in  the  family 
is  blood  that  has  been  toned  down  by  buttermilk 
and  water.'  'Why,  Maria — er — my  dear  girl,  1  am 
astonished  at  such  an  outburst  from  you,'  quoth  my 
uncle.  'Anna  will  not  have  many  years  to  live  if 
she  marries  Arthur,'  continued  my  aunt,  and  as  she 
said  this  she  laid  her  hand  affectionately  upon  Anna's 
arm.  'Are  you  willing  to  marry  Arthur,  and  die 
while  you  are  still  young,  Anna?'  'Yes,  ma'am,' 
answered  the  girl  in  a  low  tone.  'Do  you  not  see 
that  Arthur  is  horribly  ugly;  that  his  nose  is  out  of 
all  proportion  to  the  rest  of  his  face;  that  his  chin 
denotes  innate  selfishness,  and  that  his  one  eye  is 
deformed  as  a  result  of  the  unsightly  monocle?' 
asked  my  aunt,  with  a  bubbling  sort  of  a  laugh. 
'Arthur  is  all  right,'  said  Anna.  'I  think  he  is  very 
handsome,  and  I  love  him  very  much,  and  so  does 
your  Ladyship.'  'Now,  Arthur,  it  is  up  to  you,' 
laughed  the  banker.  'Marry  Anna,  and  I'll  give  you 
a  better  job,  with  more  pay.' 

"I  was  silent.  The  girl's  words  had  a  strange 
effect  upon  me.  I  looked  at  my  aunt,  and  observed 
that  her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears.  'I  want  to 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  53 

marry  Anna,'  I  finally  said.  'I  love  Anna.'  Well, 
we  were  married  and  went  to  lodgings.  My  Uncle 
Percival  tied  the  knot  with  much  reluctance,  but  he 
was  too  much  afraid  of  my  aunt's  tongue  to  serious 
ly  object.  Lady  Maria  bought  and  furnished  for  us 
a  beautiful  little  house  in  a  most  exclusive  quarter, 
and  we  lived  happily  for  three  years,  but  at  that 
time  Anna  died,  leaving  a  boy  baby  three  weeks  old. 
I  had  just  then  inherited  my  mother's  fortune  of 
forty  thousand  pounds,  and  I  went  the  way  of  all 
the  Comstocks.  I  was  intoxicated  with  the  joy  and 
freedom  that  forty  thousand  pounds  can  give  a  man. 
I  lived  on  the  Continent,  spent  some  time  with  King 
Edward,  when  he  traveled  as  the  Earl  of  Chester, 
and  spent  money  like  water  on  actresses,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing.  For  twenty  years  I  was  drunk 
with  the  freedom  that  money  gives  a  dissolute  man. 
I  courted  the  beauties  of  foreign  courts,  and  of 
course,  I  was  flattered  and  fooled  accordingly. 

"About  a  year  ago,  while  traveling  through  India, 
I  received  a  communication  from  my  lawyers  to  the 
effect  that  I  was  a  bankrupt.  I  hastened  back  to 
London,  to  find  myself  indeed  a  beggar.  The  Lady 
Maria  met  me,  with  Hugh,  my  son.  I  had  not  seen 
him  since  he  was  eight  weeks  old.  My  heart  went 
out  to  him,  he  looked  so  much  like  his  mother,  my 
poor,  unselfish  Anna.  He  showed  his  dislike  for  me, 


54  DROLL  STORIES 

but  what  could  I  expect  from  the  child  whom  I  had 
abandoned  when  a  tiny  infant?  Ah!  my  fellows, 
a  licentious  youth  brings  a  sad  old  age,  as  the  saying 
is.  I  began  to  think  how  to  come  in  touch  with 
my  surroundings,  as  it  were,  for  the  first  time  in 
twenty  years.  I  wondered  what  I  should  do  with 
myself,  with  old  age  creeping  on,  for,  on  account 
of  having  lived  a  devil  of  a  life  for  twenty-two 
years,  I  felt  prematurely  old.  'You  have  nothing 
left,'  said  my  aunt  to  me  one  day.  'Nothing  but  a 
few  paltry  hundred  pounds  and  my  clothing  and 
trinkets,'  1  replied.  'You  will  have  to  roll  up  your 
sleeves  and  go  to  work  at  something,'  she  said. 
'Remember,  you  will  have  to  support  yourself  for 
the  remainder  of  your  life.'  'How,  in  the  name  of 
God,  shall  I  do  it?'  I  asked.  'I'm  sure  I  cannot 
tell,'  answered  she.  'I  shall  have  to  take  some  time 
to  think  about  it,'  I  said,  whereupon  my  aunt  only 
laughed. 

"A  month  later  she  came  to  me  with  a  letter 
which  she  had  just  received  from  her  old  admirer, 
the  American  banker,  for  whom  I  had  worked  when 
a  boy.  He  advised  my  aunt  that  he  had  procured  a 
billet  for  me  at  Panama  with  the  Isthmian  Canal 
Commission.  'Where  is  that?'  I  asked.  'Some 
where  in  South  America,'  she  replied.  'How  shall 
I  go  about  getting  there?'  I  queried,  with  some  ex- 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  55 

asperation.  Then  who  should  happen  in  but  my 
Uncle  Percival,  whom  I  had  not  seen  since  the  day 
of  my  marriage.  He  had,  in  the  meantime,  become 
Lord  Bishop  of  Hounslow,  and  had  become  fat  and 
horribly  ugly.  Nevertheless,  I  was  glad  to  see  him. 
'What  does  this  Isthmian  Canal  Company  do  over 
at  Panama?'  asked  my  aunt,  handing  him  the  letter. 
'Why,'  replied  his  Lordship,  'it  is  an  iniquitous  com 
pany  organized  by  the  iniquitous  Yankee  govern 
ment  to  continue  to  dig  that  infamous  canal,  which 
was  commenced  by  the  thieving  French,  and  left 
unfinished  by  them.'  'Panama  is  in  South  Amer 
ica,'  said  my  aunt.  'Central  America,'  corrected  my 
uncle.  'What  is  the  object  of  the  canal?'  I  asked. 
'Why,'  said  my  uncle  fiercely,  'its  object  is  to  per 
manently  hurt  the  shipping  interests  of  Great  Brit 
ain.  It  is  the  greatest  piece  of  iniquity  that  the 
Yankees  have  ever  been  guilty  of,  and  no  Comstock 
should  lend  himself  to  the  work  in  any  capacity.' 
'It  is  Arthur's  last  chance  to  earn  an  honest  living,' 
said  the  Lady  Maria  calmly,  'and  if  it  is,  as  you  say, 
such  a  piece  of  iniquity,  it  may  have  the  effect  of 
holding  him,  since  iniquity  is  as  necessary  to  a  Com 
stock  as  is  food  and  drink.  You  will  sail  in  two 
days,  Arthur,'  she  said. 

"Well,  here  I  am  in  this  beastly  Panama,  unloved, 
unhonored,  and  seedy,  endeavoring  to  exist  on  the 


56  DROLL  STORIES 

paltry  sum  of  thirty-five  pounds  a  month.  The 
only  gratifying  recollection  of  my  whole  career  is 
the  look  of  understanding  and  gratitude  which  I  saw 
in  the  eyes  of  the  poor  dogs,  as  I  labored  to  rid  them 
of  the  horrible  and  tormenting  flea  for  the  paltry 
pennies  of  my  stingy  aunt,  the  Lady  Maria." 


THE   DERELICT. 


AM  quite  upset,  really  I  am.  This  is  an 
iniquitous  world — a  world  of  beastly 
sorrow  and  sin,  by  Jove!" 

"What   is   the   trouble   now,    Mr. 
Comstock?"  I  asked. 

"Why,  my  dear  lady,  my  dear  old 

friend  Beebe  is  lying  dead,  and  I'm 
trying  to  have  him  buried  decently;  but  really  I 
can't  get  a  soul  interested — the  beastly  cads.  Ah, 
but  it  is  a  long  story,  miy  dear  lady,  and  I  fear  I  will 
bore  you.  At  any  rate,  if  you  will  listen,  I  will  tell 
you  a  part  of  it.  I  shall  be  obliged  to  speak  plainly, 
and,  really,  I  fear  that  you  will  not  like  to  hear  of 
such  things. 

"Beebe  is  not,  or  rather  was  not,  an  ordinary 
person.  Poor  old  Beebe!  He  was  a  poet,  you 
know,  and  all  that  sort  of  a  thing,  and  a  perfect 
fiend  for  sport,  poor  old  chap!  He  came  to  the 
Isthmus  in  the  'early  days'  to  get  away  from  his 
wife,  who,  I  believe,  was  a  perfect  Tartar.  She 
made  his  life  miserable,  poor  chap,  by  always  en 
joining  economy  upon  him,  and  bothering  him  about 
practical  things.  For  a  chap  of  his  temperament, 


58  DROLL  STORIES 

she  was  not  the  right  sort,  you  know.  At  first,  poor 
old  Beebe  had  a  good  billet,  and  made  a  great  deal 
of  money — fifty  pounds  a  month  with  lodgings  and 
coals.  Fancy!  Of  course,  being  what  you  Ameri 
cans  call  'a  good  mixer'  (I  used  to  think  that  a 
'mixer'  was  American  for  barman),  he  was  very 
popular,  and  was  apparently  doing  very  nicely, 
until  he  met  a  girl  with  whom  he  became  enamored, 
and  she,  seemingly,  took  quite  a  fancy  to  him.  She 
was  a  fine  musician,  and,  of  her  sort,  rather  pretty." 

"White?" 

"Oh,  dear,  no.  She  was  one  of  those  brown- 
skinned  charmers  who  make  chaps  of  every  clime 
forget  their  home  ties,  their  country,  and,  often  as 
not,  their  God.  Well,  as  I  said,  poor  old  Beebe 
fell  in  love  with  her,  and  right  there  began  his 
downfall.  The  creature  ruled  him  with  a  rod  of 
iron.  He  gave  her  all  the  money  he  could  get.  He 
actually  gave  her  diamonds,  by  Jove!  and  the  Lord 
knows  what  else.  Well,  the  hussy  wasn't  satisfied, 
but  wanted  more  dinero,  et  cetera,  and  poor  old 
Beebe  was  at  his  wits'  end.  Finally,  she  had  the 
beastly  cheek  to  threaten  to  leave  him  for  a  bounder 
of  a  Frenchman  who  sold  sausages,  or  something 
of  that  sort.  The  wretched  creature !  In  short,  she 
bluffed  the  poor  chap,  for  he  came  to  me  one  day 
and  said  that  he  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  giving 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  59 

her  up,  and  that  if  she  wanted  more  money  he 
would  try  to  get  it  for  her.  I  advised  him  to  give 
her  up,  but  he  left  me,  shaking  his  head  sadly. 

"Well,  Beebe  visited  all  his  friends  in  town,  and 
'touched'  each  one  for  more  or  less,  according  to 
his  salary.  In  this  way  he  realized  quite  a  sum, 
which  he  gave  to  the  girl,  who  immediately  turned 
it  over  to  the  beastly  sausage  chap,  and  began  clam 
oring  for  more.  Now,  poor  old  Beebe  wrote  to  his 
friends  in  the  States,  and,  although  he  hated  to  tell 
a  lie  (truthful  chap,  Beebe),  he,  of  course,  had  to 
say  that  he  was  ill.  Well,  at  any  rate,  he  received 
quite  a  goodly  sum  from  home.  His  wife  was  good 
enough  to  send  him  twenty  pounds.  I  presume  she 
felt  sorry  for  having  been  so  severe  with  him  in  the 
days  that  were  gone.  Now,  Beebe  took  to  drinking 
harder  (very  fond  of  B.  and  S.,  was  Beebe),  and 
the  girl  left  him;  for  the  bounder.  Also,  his  friends, 
at  about  this  time,  began  to  dun  him  for  the  money 
he  had  borrowed.  The  poor  fellow  was  simply 
bothered  to  death,  and  drank  more  and  more  every 
day;  and  finally  lost  his  position.  What,  ill-luck? 
The  poor  chap  had  at  last  reached  the  lowest  depths 
of  poverty  and  degradation,  and  would  probably 
have  died  long  ago  had  he  not  fallen  in  with  an 
other  girl.  This  one  was  a  different  sort.  Good- 
hearted,  and  all  that,  you  know.  Not  a  bit  mer- 


60  DROLL  STORIES 

cenary.  She  was  as  faithful  as  a  dog.  Went  out 
to  work  every  day,  and  saw  that  he  wanted  for 
nothing — even  to  several  'nips'  each  day,  without 
which  the  poor  chap  could  now  hardly  live.  Beebe 
didn't  take  much  interest  in  life,  however.  I  fancy 
he  was  grieving  for  the  hussy,  who  had  made  such 
an  ass  of  him.  My  word !  he  used  to  steal  off  secretly 
at  night  to  plead  with  her. 

"Well,  he's  dead  now,  poor  fellow,  and  there  are 
none  so  poor  as  to  do  him  reverence;  but  he  was  a 
good  sort,  a  very  clever  chap,  and  many  the  Scotch 
we've  had  together.  But  I  won't  moralize,  my  dear 
lady.  He  drank  more  and  more.  Heaven  knows 
where  he  got  it.  I  believe  there  must  be  some  special 
Providence,  whose  business  it  is  to  see  that  the  thirsty 
never  languish  too  long.  Beebe  began  to  neglect 
his  personal  appearance,  and,  his  liver  being  a  little 
congested,  his  nose  became  a  bit  red.  It  altered  his 
looks  horribly.  I  felt  quite  sorry  for  him.  He  had 
been  warned  often  enough  by  the  district  physicians 
(very  humane  chaps),  but  poor  Beebe  took  no 
notice,  not  caring,  I  presume.  At  last  he  got  in  the 
habit  of  drinking  some  beastly  stuff  they  sell  in  the 
Chino  shops.  Last  night  he  took  an  overdose  of  the 
poison.  He  died  to-day  at  12  o'clock.  I  have  been 
trying  to  get  him  an  American  flag  for  a  winding 
sheet.  Did  I  get  one?  No,  indeed,  my  dear  lady. 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  61 

I  have  asked  numbers  of  his  former  friends,  but  not 
one  of  them  seemed  to  care.  They  had  no  sympathy 
for  him,  nor  could  they  condone  his  mode  of  life, 
and  its  squalid  ending.  But  I  am  different,  you 
know.  I've  been  a  devil  of  a  fellow  in  my  time, 
even  though  I  do  come  from  a  long  line  of  clergy 
men.  My  word !  we  Comstocks  are  the  very  devils. 
You  see,  Beebe's  motto  is  mine  also :  'As  we  journey 
through  life,  let  us  live  by  the  way,'  and  I  may  add : 
'Never  put  up  the  night's  share  for  the  morning.'  I 
went  to  one  of  poor  Beebe's  friends,  who  just 
laughed,  and  said.  'You'd  better  put  the  wench's 
petticoat  on  him  for  a  shroud.'  Another  one  said 
he  had  too  much  respect  for  the  flag  to  'see  that 
mutt'  wrapped  in  it.  The  brutes! 

"Would  you  like  to  come  with  me  and  view  the 
remains  ?  Then  we'd  better  go  right  along,  or  those 
bounders  will  have  buried  the  poor  chap.  You  will 
buy  him  a  winding  sheet  ?  How  good  of  you !  Poor 
old  Beebe  would  have  appreciated  that. 

Beebe's  kind-hearted  friend  led  me  through  many 
winding  streets  to  a  most  dismal  neighborhood  in 
that  region  of  the  city  which,  until  lately,  had  been 
known  as  the  underworld ;  and  in  a  dingy  tenement 
above  a  Chino  shop  I  was  shown  the  remains  of 
"poor  Beebe."  In  a  cheap,  rough  coffin,  laid  upon 
boards  stretched  between  two  barrels,  he  looked 


62  DROLL  STORIES 

very  handsome  in  his  peacefulness.  There  was  no 
evidence  now  of  his  nose  ever  having  been  red.  The 
hand  of  death  had  eliminated  the  disfigurement, 
which  his  friend  had  so  deplored.  He  was  clothed 
in  a  striped  shirt,  with  a  collar  and  red  tie.  Some 
thing  white  covered  the  lower  part  of  his  body. 
After  a  minute  I  discerned  that  it  was  a  woman's 
voluminous  petticoat.  "Why!  what  iniquity  is 
this?"  said  Mr.  Comstock,  tugging  at  the  unseemly 
garment.  "Why,  Beebe  would  turn  in  his  grave  if 
he  was  buried  in  this!  My  word!  How  he  would 
laugh  if  he  were  here  looking  at  some  one  else. 
Beebe,  old  boy,  you're  in  a  better  world  now — a 
world  where  you'll  be  understood,"  he  continued, 
as  he  divested  the  silent  Beebe  of  the  objectionable 
covering. 

Meantime,  several  persons  came  into  the  room 
and  stood  about  as  though  waiting  for  something 
to  happen.  There  were  several  swagger  black  men 
in  long  black  coats,  carrying  tall  hats,  and  some 
white  men  rather  shabbily  dressed,  very  seedy  and 
with  very  red  noses — derelicts  in  this  black  Sargasso 
Sea.  One  of  the  negroes  brought  a  box  and  asked 
me  to  sit  down,  but  the  black  women  looked  upon 
me  with  evident  displeasure,  plainly  showing  that 
they  regarded  me  as  an  intruder,  until  a  boy  arrived 
with  the  shroud  for  the  dead  man.  Then  they 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  63 

smiled  upon  me,  and  set  to  work  to  prepare  it. 
Now,  a  young  man,  who  might  have  been  Irish, 
came  into  the  room  and  asked  for  Comstock.  "Here 
I  am.,"  said  the  Englishman,  stepping  forward,  and 
bowing  courteously.  "What  do  you  wish?" 
"  'Blinky'  says  he  ain't  got  no  American  flag,  but 
he  sends  you  this,  an'  he  says  that  it  will  be  good 
enough,  an'  too  good  for  the  likes  o'  him."  So  say 
ing,  he  threw  down  a  green  bundle  into  the  lap  of 
one  of  the  women.  "My  word!  It's  an  Irish  flag!" 
exclaimed  Comstock,  "and  Beebe  had  no  use  what 
ever  for  the  Irish.  It  was  his  only  prejudice.  What 
irony?" 

Judging  from  Beebe's  face,  there  was  no  doubt 
but  what  he  had  descended  from  a  long  line  of 
New  England  ancestors,  all  of  whom  had  a  fine 
scorn,  doubtless,  for  everything  Irish.  The  white 
shroud  was  now  wrapped  about  "poor  Beebe,"  and 
then,  ye  shades  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers !  the  coffin  was 
draped  in  the  folds  of  what  once  had  been  Erin's 
glory. 

"The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls, 
The  soul  of  music  shed," 

quoted  Mr.  Comstock,  as  he  arranged  the  folds  so 
that  the  golden  harp  would  show  in  bold  relief  on 
Beebe's  breast.  It  was  the  only  touch  of  respecta 
bility  in  Beebe's  last  earthly  trappings;  and  a  drop 


64  DROLL  STORIES 

of  Irish  stirred  somewhere  within  me  and  burned 
hot  at  the  thought  that  the  flag  was  considered  of 
no  better  use  than  to  cover  the  remains  of  an  out 
cast,  who  had  disgraced  his  own  flag. 

A  black  clergyman  now  arriving,  a  hush  fell  upon 
the  little  gathering.  The  black  men  tiptoed  into 
positions  behind  the  white  mourners,  who  tried  their 
best  to  look  solemn.  The  minister  ("a  blooming 
Dissenter,"  whispered  Mr.  Comstock  to  me),  carry 
ing  a  prayer-book  and  a  Bible,  advanced  in  a  most 
reverential  manner.  He  opened  the  Bible  and  read 
as  follows : 

"Malachi,  fourth  chapter,  first  verse:  'For  behold, 
the  day  cometh  that  shall  burn  as  an  oven,  and  all 
the  proud,  yea,  and  all  that  do  wickedness,  shall  be 
stubble,  and  the  day  that  cometh  shall  burn  them 
up,  saith  the  Lord  of  Hosts;  that  it  shall  leave  them 
neither  root  nor  branch.'  " 

He  then  repeated  the  regular  burial  service.  As 
he  raised  his  eyes  from  the  prayer-book  they  fell 
upon  a  woman  who  hung  over  the  silent  form  of 
Beebe.  In  her  arms  she  held  a  pretty,  golden-haired 
child,  whose  wistful  blue  eyes  looked  in  wonder 
ment  at  the  motley  group  about  her.  "Who  is 
this?"  asked  the  minister,  closing  the  book  and 
pointing  to  the  child.  "This  is  the  woman  and 
child,"  answered  Mr.  Comstock.  "Do  you  mean 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  65 

his  wife?"  "Well — so  to  speak,  sah,"  said  the 
woman  between  her  sobs.  The  minister  sighed,  and 
continued  with  calmness:  "  I  knew  that  this  man 
had  died  from  drink,  but  I  did  not  know  that  he 
had  left  this  curse  behind  him.  All  you  white  men 
and  black  women  mark  well  what  I  am  about  to 
say."  The  white  men  looked  uneasily  at  each  other. 
The  black  ones  retreated  to  the  background,  while 
the  women  stared  at  the  speaker  with  mouths  wide 
open.  "Do  you  know,"  said  he  "that  the  crime 
which  this  man  has  committed  cries  to  God  for 
vengeance?  Look  at  that  beautiful,  golden-haired, 
blue-eyed  child,  who  is  fated  to  be  an  outcast  on  the 
face  of  the  earth.  Think  of  what  her  future  must 
be,  with  the  Caucasian  in  her  veins  running  riot  with 
the  African !  Oh,  you  white  men  and  black  women 
who  abide  together  in  sin,  and  bring  these  innocent 
ones  into  the  world — the  curse  of  God  is  upon  you." 

Some  of  the  white  men  turned  pale  at  this,  and 
several  of  the  women  sank  upon  their  knees  and 
cried  aloud  for  mercy.  It  appeared  that  "poor 
Beebe"  was  not  the  only  one  who  was  married,  "so 
to  speak." 

"Let  us  pray,"  said  the  minister.  The  men  fell 
upon  their  knees  and  echoed  the  words  which  fell 
from  the  lips  of  God's  anointed.  While  they  were 
praying,  the  black  woman  cried  aloud,  and  I  noticed 


66  DROLL  STORIES 

with  some  horror  that  her  tears  fell  upon  the  golden 
head  of  the  child.  "May  God  have  mercy  upon 
your  soul,"  said  the  minister,  as  the  last  of  "poor 
Beebe"  was  borne  from  the  room.  He  appeared  to 
be  true  to  his  calling  and  to  feel  with  intensity  the 
enormity  of  that  crime  which,  if  not  checked,  will 
eventually  result  in  a  widespread  corruption  of  both 
races.  I  came  away.  The  last  I  saw  of  it  was  Mr. 
Comstock  trudging  behind  the  hearse,  which  was 
now  bearing  "poor  Beebe"  to  an  unnamed  pauper's 

grave  marked  only  by  a  number. 
*      *      * 

Not  long  ago,  during  a  conversation  with  Beebe's 
faithful  friend,  he  confided  in  me  that  the  clergy 
man's  religious  sincerity  had  not  only  caused  him 
to  alter  his  own  mode  of  life,  but  had  changed  his 
ethical  view  of  Beebe's  conduct  to  his  wife  and 
friends  and  to  his  unfortunate  child. 


THE   BOUNDER. 


W 


HAT  abominable  bounders  there  are, 
to  be  sure!  And  what  shocking 
conditions  must  exist  to  produce 
them  and  to  tolerate  them.  Really, 
I  am  amazed  at  times,  to  think  that 
I,  a  scion  of  the  house  of  Corn- 
stock  (the  Surrey  Comstocks,  my 
dear  lady),  should  know  so  many 
of  the  blighters.  As  you  know,  my  ancestors  were 
great  churchmen,  and,  although  we  Comstocks  of 
the  present  generation  are  perfect  devils,  especially 
my  Uncle  Percival,  there  are  times  when  a  little 
voice  within  me  speaks  up  rudely,  and  I  am  carried 
back  in  fancy  to  the  long-regretted  days  of  my  in 
nocent  youth  in  dear,  charming  old  Chickingham. 
My  word!  Fancy  the  Bishop  of  Hounslow  seeing 
his  own  nephew  in  the  company  of  such  cads.  You 
cannot  imagine  how  dreadfully  difficult  it  is  for  a 
chap  to  keep  in  the  straight  and  narrow  path  of 
rectitude;  even  if  he  is  a  bounder  he  will  find  it 
difficult  to  resist  some  of  the  temptations. 

"Every  day  of  my  life  I  am  brought  into  contact 
with  chaps  who  are  always  lamenting  their  pasts, 


68  DROLL  STORIES 

and  making  excuses  for  their  present  way  of  living, 
but  have  fallen  too  low  to  ever  return  to  the  old 
life,  and  will,  I  have  no  doubt,  come  to  an  end  like 
poor  old  Beebe's.  Some  of  these  chaps  are  a  good 
sort;  others  are  quite  likely  to  be  bounders. 

"I  have -just  heard  something  quite  distressing. 
You  have  heard  of  Skilford,  no  doubt  ?  No  ?  How 
remarkable !  I  fancied  everybody  knew  him.  At  all 
events,  he  is  a  countryman  of  yours — a  Yankee 
chap.  He  came  from  Georgia,  I  believe.  Well,  the 
poor  fellow  is  in  quod  at  New  Orleans,  all  on  ac 
count  of  being  a  bit  too  good-hearted.  Like  the  rest 
of  us,  he  was  a  bit  wild  while  here  on  the  Isthmus, 
and  was  a  great  favorite  with  his  boss,  who  was  a 
married  man;  also,  a  great  bounder,  sly  as  a  red 
Indian,  and  horribly  unprincipled.  But,  just  wait 
until  I  have  finished,  and  you  will  fairly  gasp  for 
breath. 

"This  other  Johnnie — the  married  one — it  seems, 
was  liv — er,  er — excuse  me,  my  dear  lady;  it's  ter 
ribly  embarrassing — in  fact,  he  had  a  sort  of  semi 
detached  alliance  with  a  young  female  from  Mar 
tinique,  an  Afro-Franco,  as  it  were.  By  Jove !  What 
a  bally  combination !  The  young  Afro-Franco,  how 
ever,  was  not  at  all  bad-looking,  and,  as  only  natural 
in  those  times,  (the  alliance  was  formed  in  the  early 
days,)  she  was  much  'sought  after,'  as  they  say  in 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  69 

the  provincial  journals  when  describing  the  marriage 
of  the  village  belle  to  the  leading  grocer's  son.  The 
chaps,  you  see,  were  lonely  in  those  days,  and  were 
not  to  be  blamed  so  much,  you  know,  for  having 
fancies  they  would  never  dream  of  at  home.  Really, 
now,  I  must  confess,  I  almost  succumbed  to  her 
charms  myself.  Fancy!  I,  grandson  of  the  Dean 
of  Oldtop,  Shropshire." 

"You  are  moralizing  again,  Mr.  Comstock." 
"Upon  my  word,  so  I  am,  my  dear  lady.  A 
thousand  pardons.  We  Comstocks  are  all  great 
moralizers.  Well,  then,  as  the  Afro-Franco  would 
say,  'revenous  le  mouton.'  She  preferred  the  beastly 
married  cad  to  whom  I  have  already  alluded.  The 
blooming  ass  fancied  he  had  made  a  conquest,  and 
flaunted  her  in  our  eyes.  Spent  more  money  than 
he  could  really  afford,  to  buy  finery  for  her.  Things 
went  on  so  for  quite  a  time,  until  he  wearied  of  her, 
and,  as  his  holiday  was  about  due,  he  resolved  to 
go  home,  when,  bless  your  eyes,  the  blooming 
Bacchante  cooly  announced  to  him  that  he  would 
take  a  vacation  over  her  dead  body.  Now,  the 
bounder  was  in  a  quandary — fairly  stumped.  He 
really  needed  a  vacation,  and  wished  to  take  it  to 
prevent  his  wife,  a  very  estimable  woman,  from 
communicating  with  Culebra,  which  he  fancied  she 
might  do,  which  would  be  the  means  of  his  losing 


70  DROLL  STORIES 

his  job.  He  had  a  very  good  job.  Fear  of  exposure 
quite  upset  him,  and  what  do  you  think  the  bounder 
did?  The  little  brute!  He  actually  came  to  me, 
Algernon  Comstock,  of  Comstock  Lodge,  Surrey. 
'Algy,'  said  he  (the  infamous  vagabond),  'how 
would  you  like  to  earn  five  hundred  dollars  gold?' 
'I  should  like  it  very  much/  I  replied,  quite  in 
nocently.  'Come  with  me,'  said  he.  I  followed  the 
blighter,  and  what  do  you  think?  He  took  me  to 
the  lodgings  he  had  provided  for  the  Afro-Franco, 
and  very  hospitably  set  out  some  excellent  cognac 
(the  Comstocks  are  all  great  chaps  for  the  B.  and 
S.),  and  after  we  had  some  little  conversation  the 
scoundrel  had  the  effrontery  to  suggest  to  me,  in 
an  insinuating  way,  that  I  make  myself  agreeable  to 
the  hussy — he,  in  the  meantime,  to  absent  himself, 
to  return  at  an  opportune  moment,  create  a  scene, 
and  then,  having  'something  on  her,'  as  it  were,  he 
expected  to  screw  up  courage  enough  to  drive  the 
baggage  from  him.  He  was  most  assuredly  afraid 
of  her,  and  knew  that,  lacking  friendly  moral  sup 
port,  he  could  never  have  it  out  with  her  in  any  way 
satisfactory  to  himself.  What  a  serpent!  I  was 
struck  quite  dumb — speechless  with  indignation, 
and  for  reply  I  gave  the  bounder  a  blow  that  sent 
him  sprawling.  Then,  with  a  heavy  heart — the 
affair  had  given  me  quite  a  turn— -I  went  to  my 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  71 

quarters  and  sat  down  to  think.  I  marveled  at 
myself  for  having  sunk  so  low.  Fancy  me  being 
asked  to  take  part  in  such  an  iniquitous  scheme ! 

"Well,  I  fully  expected  to  lose  my  berth  over  the 
affair,  as  the  cad  was  supposed  to  have  considerable 
influence.  In  the  event  of  my  dismissal  I  would 
have  nothing  but  my  personal  effects,  as  I  had  lived 
up  to  every  penny  paid  for  my  services.  However, 
don't  be  alarmed,  my  dear  lady;  I  was  not  fired  for 
that.  Some  other  time  I'll  tell  you  how  I  happened  to 
be  'let  out.'  Just  now  I  was  in  one  of  my  periodically 
penitent  moods,  and  resolved,  on  the  spot,  after 
earnestly  praying,  to  lead  a  better  life,  a  life  more 
worthy  of  a  Comstock.  I  did,  upon  my  word!  I 
reasoned  that  I  must  have  appeared  low  in  the  eyes 
of  the  bounder,  else  he  would  not  have  asked  me 
to  help  him  trick  such  a  creature.  As  I  thought 
thus,  my  dear  lady,  the  old  Comstock  blood  fairly 
boiled  in  every  blooming  vein  in  my  body.  Really, 
I  wished  to  die." 

"But  who  is  Mr.  Skilford,  Mr.  Comstock,  and 
what  has  he  to  do  with  the  case?  And  who  is  this 
old  bounder — the  married  one?"  I  asked. 

"Wait,  I  am  coming  to  that  presently,"  replied 
Mr.  Comstock,  as  he  lighted  his  pipe,  which  went 
out  a  great  many  times  when  he  grew  excited. 
"Skilford  is  a  good  chap — nothing  but  a  boy,  ex- 


72  DROLL  STORIES 

tremely  good-natured,  honest,  and  all  that — well 
liked,  you  know — but  utterly  without  that  fine  dis 
crimination  which  should  always  prevent  a  Corn- 
stock  from  doing  anything  off-color.  He  worked 
under  the  other  one.  The  bounder  was  an  elderly 
cad,  a  noisy  brute  when  in  his  cups,  which  was  very 
often,  I  can  assure  you.  Very  common  sort.  Loves 
to  sit  in  a  tap-room,  pounding  the  table,  telling  every 
one  who  will  listen  what  a  clever  chap  he  is — .Poor 
old  Beebe  knew  him  well.  I  remember  one  night 
we  were  carousing  at  the  'Oriole,'  Beebe  and  I  at 
one  table  and  the  bounder  with  his  audience  at  an 
other  nearby.  He  was  a  bit  squiffy,  as  usual,  and 
seemed  in  rare  form.  Beebe  was  quite  vexed  at  the 
brute,  and  what  do  you  suppose  he  did?  Blessed, 
if  he  didn't  call  for  pad  and  pencil  and  scratch  off 
some  doggerel  which,  I  fancy,  pretty  well  describes 
the  bounder.  Poor  Beebe  was  clever  at  that  sort 
of  thing.  The  first  verse  went  something  like  this: 

"  'At  every  midnight  session, 

Or  surreptitious  spree, 
Wherever  Gringoes  gather 

For  discussion  loud  and  free; 
Where  eloquence  is  measured 

By  capacity  for  sound — 
A  raucous  voice  insistent, 

Is  heard  fpr  blocks  around.' 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  73 

"Then,  old  Beebe  had  a  lot  more  verses  describing 
the  bounder's  antics.  Really,  I'm  getting  very  for 
getful.  It's  the  beastly  climate,  I  fancy;  but  one 
other  verse  went  on  thus: 

"  'Then  he  fiercely  pounds  the  table 

And  glares  around  the  room, 
In  his  eye  a  waiting  challenge, 

Which  none  there  dare  presume 
To  accept,  for  they  are  thirsty — 

These  gents  are  always  dry. 
To  neglect  the  fellow's  ego, 

M|ight  cut  off  their  supply.' 

"I  cannot  remember  any  more,  but  some  day  I 
will  let  you  have  a  copy  of  the  thing. 

"Well,  at  any  rate,  my  beating  the  brute  did  not 
deter  him  from  making  the  same  proposition  to 
others,  as  is  well  known,  but  all  refused,  until  he 
approached  young  Skilford.  He  fell.  Not  for  the 
money.  Oh,  dear  no!  He's  too  decent  a  sort  for 
that.  As  you  may  have  already  surmised,  Skilford 
was  a  rather  weak,  complacent  sort  of  a  chap;  and 
then,  perhaps,  the  bounder,  being  his  boss,  influenced 
him  in  a  way.  At  any  rate,  Charley  agreed  to  his 
proposal,  and  the  scene  was  set  as  before,  with  a 
new  villain  in  place  of  your  humble  servant.  This 
time,  however,  everything  came  off  as  prearranged. 
Charley  went  through  his  part  beautifully.  You 


74  DROLL  STORIES 

see,  he  didn't  have  to  act  very  hard;  in  fact,  the 
situation  quite  pleased  the  silly  fellow,  and  he  played 
up  to  the  bounder's  leads  marvelously.  The  bounder, 
being  pretty  well  primed  up  when  he  burst  upon  the 
scene,  did  not  have  to  strain  for  effect,  either.  As 
to  the  Afro-Franco,  she,  strangely  enough,  did  not 
seem  a  bit  upset.  My  word,  what  a  farce!  The 
bounder  got  shut  of  her  and  departed  on  his  holiday 
with  a  light  heart,  unmolested,  save  for  a  few  patois 
curses,  which  he  didn't  understand,  and  poor  Skil- 
ford,  victim  of  his  own  good  nature,  stayed  on  to 
carry  out  in  earnest  the  part  he  had  essayed  to  act 
for  a  few  minutes  only,  in  order  to  oblige  his  boss. 

"The  bounder  never  returned.  His  wife  saw  to 
that,  I  fancy.  Charley  seemed  quite  infatuated  with 
the  little  brown  parley-vouz,  and  she  thought  a  great 
deal  more  of  him  than  she  had  of  the  bounder.  My 
word !  She  used  to  swear  ferociously  that  she  would 
cut  his  heart  out  if  he  ever  tried  to  leave  her.  What 
a  savage!  But  it's  laughable,  too,  if  it  were  not  so 
sad.  Mind  you,  all  of  this  time  Charley  was  en 
gaged  to  a  fine  young  woman  in  the  States.  Before 
long,  the  infatuation  wearing  off,  and  wishing  to 
leave  the  Isthmus  for  good,  anyway,  he  began  to 
cast  about  for  ways  and  means  (like  the  bounder) 
of  getting  away  alive.  He  was  mindful  of  the 
hussy's  threats,  and  dared  take  no  chances.  How- 


Of1  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  75 

ever,  with  the  connivance  of  friends,  he  was  enabled 
(as  he  fancied)  to  make  his  plans  for  departure 
without  the  hussy's  knowledge.  When  everything 
was  ready,  transportation  procured,  etc.,  and  she  all 
the  while  happily  unconscious  (as  he  fancied),  he 
told  her  he  was  being  sent  down  the  line  for  a  few 
days  to  do  a  little  job.  She  said  nothing,  and 
Charley  started  off,  as  usual,  in  his  working  clothes. 
He  took  no  luggage,  of  course.  The  poor  chap 
sacrificed  everything — everything  but  his  Canal 
medal,  which  she  allowed  him  to  carry  attached  to 
his  dollar  watch. 

"I  went  to  Colon  to  see  him  off,  and  we  had  a 
few  nips  on  board  in  the  smoking-room.  I  breathed 
a  great  sigh  of  relief  as  the  ship  pulled  out  from  the 
wharf,  and  on  Charley's  face  was  a  most  beatific 
expression.  The  old  chap  waved  his  hand  to  me, 
when — oh,  horrors!  What  did  I  see?  The  girl.  I 
grew  sick  at  heart  as  I  beheld  her.  She  laid  one  of 
her  hands  upon  Charley's  shoulder.  I  saw  him  turn 
quietly,  and  then  they  passed  out  of  sight.  It  made 
me  quite  ill.  As  it  now  appears,  she  had  'beaten 
Charley  to  it,'  as  it  were,  and  had  booked  a  passage 
for  herself  to  New  Orleans.  Poor  Charley,  to  avoid 
a  scene,  had  quieted  her,  by  the  Lord  knows  what 
promises.  At  any  rate,  they  say  that  there  was  no 
disturbance  on  the  trip  up.  The  denouement  came 


76  DROLL  STORIES 

when  the  ship  berthed  at  New  Orleans.  There, 
waiting  to  welcome  him.  home,  were  his  parents  and 
the  young  lady  to  whom  I  alluded.  Imagine  the 
poor  chap's  position.  Well,  to  make  a  long  story 
short,  while  Charley  was  being  fondly  welcomed  by 
his  intended,  the  brown  girl  rushed  into  the  midst 
of  the  little  group,  flourishing  a  revolver  and  scream 
ing  at  the  top  of  her  voice  that  she  was  Charley's 
wife.  Charley  grabbed  her,  they  say,  to  wrest  away 
the  revolver.  During  the  scuffle  the  gun  went  off, 
and  the  creature  was  shot  through  the  lungs.  Poor 
Charley's  locked  up,  temporarily,  of  course;  the 
Afro-Franco's  in  the  hospital,  going  to  recover,  I 
believe.  And  the  poor  young  lady.  Ah,  my  dear 
lady,  it  is  indeed  shocking.  I  wonder  how  many 
poor  young  ladies  there  are  at  home  ?  Iniquitous ! 

"Well,  good-day.    I  must  really  go  and  have  a 
B.  and  S." 


HIGGINS'   LADY. 


(PAET  I.) 

MIND  the  day,"  said  the  story-teller, 
"when  Higgins  blew  into  Havana. 
We  was  workin'  in  the  corral  then, 
an'  the  troops  was  nearly  all  mustered 
out,  an',  say,  there  was  as  fine  a  bunch 
of  guys  there  as  you'd  find  in  a  day's 
walk.  But,  anyhow,  Higgins  was  not 
of  their  class,  we  could  all  see  that;  and,  say,  his 
name  wasn't  Higgins  any  more  than  mine  is  Daniel 
Webster. 

"He  was  as  good-lookin'  young  chap  as  ever 
lived,  and,  say,  couldn't  he  sing,  and  play,  and  act, 
and  recite  pieces  of  poetry  to  beat  the  band !  Well, 
sir,  he  went  to  board  with  a  young,  so  to  speak, 
married  couple,  an'  that  was  the  end  of  his  peace 
of  mind.  The  woman  was  a  darn  fool  and  the  man 
was  a  darn  brute.  He  was  a  French  Haitian,  and 
she  was  the  daughter  of  a  Cuban  woman,  who  was 
then  married  to  an  American  man.  Well,  the  hus 
band  used  to  get  drunk  and  beat  her  up,  to  beat. 


78  DROLL  STORIES 

sense  into  her  head,  but  it  didn't  do  much  good.    All 
she  cared  about  was  clothes  and  flattery. 

"Several  of  the  fellers  kind  a  took  a  shine  to  her, 
but  she  always  tricked  'em  in  some  way;  if  she 
didn't  get  money  out  of  'em  she'd  frame  up  some 
story  about  'em  to  her  man,  and  he'd  come  around 
with  a  shotgun  and  'ud  scare  the  wits  out  of  'em. 
So,  after  a  while,  they  let  the  baggage  alone.  Young 
Higgins,  however,  kep'  her  at  arms'  length,  but  he 
used  to  take  her  part  whenever  she  was  bein'  badly 
used  by  the  man  she  was  livin'  with.  Well,  once 
Higgins  rolled  up  his  sleeves  and  gave  the  brute  a 
beating  such  as  he  never  got  before.  His  face  looked 
like  a  jellyfish  when  Higgins  got  through  with  him. 
We  all  stood  around  in  a  ring  and  watched  to  see 
fair  play.  The  bully  was  big  enough  to  eat  Higgins, 
but  he  sure  got  the  worst  of  it.  When  'twas  all  over 
he  was  removed  to  the  hospital,  and  the  woman's 
father  came  forward  and  told  Higgins  that  the  man 
was  goin'  back  to  Hayti  and  never  intended  to  live 
with  his  daughter  again;  that  she  would  have  to  go 
on  the  town,  etc.  Well,  anyway,  it  fell  upon  Hig 
gins  to  take  care  of  her,  and  he  did  it  like  a  man. 
But  there  was  no  love  business.  Higgins  signed  an 
agreement  that  he  would  take  care  of  the  woman 
until  such  time  as  she  would  get  a  man  who  would. 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  79 

marry  her,  because  she  wasn't  really  married  to  the 
Haitian,  anyway. 

"Soon  after  this  Higgins  left  Havana  and  came  here 
to  the  Isthmus.  He  sent  her  a  check  every  month, 
and  she  lived  with  her  mother  and  father,  and  was 
respectable;  but  I'm  doggoned  if  she  didn't  come 
to  the  Isthmus  last  week,  and  she's  now  living  in 
Panama,  while  Higgins  is  gone  to  the  other  end  of 
the  line  to  live.  She's  a  fine  lookin'  woman,  but 
she  ain't  got  a  grain  of  sense,  and  she's  stuck  on 
herself,  an'  I  come  around  to  ye  fellers  to  see  if  ye 
couldn't  do  somethin'  to  get  her  took  off  of  Higgins' 
hands." 

"I  know  Higgins,  an',  with  his  fine  notions  of 
right  and  wrong,  he'd  never  stand  for  any  scheme 
against  a  woman,"  said  one  of  the  listeners.  "Why, 
Higgins  wouldn't  let  us  fellers  talk  about  a  woman. 
When  we'd  start  to  talk,  he'd  start  to  play  the 
fiddle,  an'  then,  of  course,  we'd  shut  up." 

"But  why  not  get  a  line  on  her  and  send  some 
soft  guy  around  who'll  fall  for  her,  an'  that'll  let 
Higgins  out  ?"  asked  the  story-teller.  "And,  if  she. 
don't  fall,  why,  there  would  be  no  harm  done." 

"Two  sleuths  were  sent  out  to  sound  Higgins  and 
two  were  sent  out  to  get  a  line  on  the  lady,  and, 
after  a  week,  the  four  made  a  report  as  follows: 
Higgins  is  morose  and  peevish;  refused  to  talk  of 


80  DROLL  STORIES 

the  lady.  Lady  is  a  good-looker,  but  is  lonesome 
and  needs  a  home.  Never  sees  Higgins,  and  says 
that  if  it  was  not  for  him  she'd  still  be  in  with  her 
husband." 

"Well,  doggone  her!"  exclaimed  Higgins'  friends 
in  chorus. 

"I'll  tell  ye,  boys,"  said  one  of  the  oldest  men 
present.  "I  know  a  man  that'll  take  her  for  better 
or  worse  on  sight  if  she's  a  good-looker,  and  I'll 
bring  him  around  in  a  few  minutes,  and  we'll  get  to 
talkin'  her  up  to  him — kind  of  advertisin'  her." 

"The  friends,  very  much  interested,  agreed,  and 
the  man  departed  in  search  of  Bill  Wiley,  for  that 
was  the  name  of  the  unsuspecting  man  who  was  so 
soon  to  be  made  a  victim  on  the  altar  of  the  Higgins. 
Bill  Wiley's  sentiments  were  well  known  to  the  men 
in  that  bachelor  house.  If  he  had  a  weakness  in  the 
world  it  was  for  ladies  that  were,  from  his  stand 
point,  good-lookers,  large,  florid,  beefy,  ladies  that 
showed  their  keep.  Bill  made  two  hundred  and 
twenty-five  dollars  a  month,  and  was  lonesome  for 
a  mate  and  a  home.  He  was  not  handsome  nor 
elegant,  but  he  had  a  taking  way  with  him,  a  bank 
account  of  ten  thousand  dollars  and  a  house  and 
twenty  acres  of  land  in  Florida.  A  note  was  made 
of  this  for  the  lady's  benefit,  and  when  Bill  came  to 
the  house  that  night,  being  led  there  by  John  Hogan,, 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  gl 

each  man  made  a  mental  note  that  Higgins  would 
be  soon  a  free  man." 

"  'What  do  you  think  of  the  Goethal's  gateway?' 
asked  John  Hogan,  as  he  handed  Bill  a  cigar. 

"  'It's  a  good  idea.' 

"  The  finest  lookin'  woman  that  ever  came  to 
the  Isthmus,'  floated  to  Bill's  ears,  'an',  as  for  style, 
she  beats  any  one  you  ever  saw.' 

'"I  guess  I'll  go  over  there  an'  hear  about  that 
girl  the  fellers  are  talkin'  about,'  said  Bill.  'Who 
is  she?' 

"  'She's  a  widow  lady  that  lives  in  Panama  an' 
complains  of  being  lonely.' 

"  'Poor  thing,'  said  Bill,  'I  know  what  that  means. 
I'm  lonely  myself  most  of  the  time.' 

"  'She's  a  fine  woman,'  said  John  Hogan,  in  a 
reusing  tone.  'I  wish  to  gawd  she'd  care  for  me. 
She's  pink  an'  white,  with  black  hair  and  black  eyes, 
and  is  nice  and  plump.' 

"  'Maybe  she'd  care  for  you,'  said  Bill." 

"'Not  likely;  she  said  she  wouldn't  marry  the 
best  man  that  ever  lived  unless  she  loved  him,  and 
even  then  he'd  have  to  have  ten  thousand  dollars.' 

"  'You  might  give  a  fellow  an  introduction  to  her,' 
said  Bill  Wiley  at  the  mention  of  this  sum,  which 
he  possessed. 


HIGGINS'   LADY. 


W 


(PAET  II.) 

HEN  Bill  Wiley  again  presented  him 
self  before  his  friends  he  was  very 
much  changed  as  to  personal  ap 
pearance.  His  face  was  clean  and 
smooth,  his  hair  carefully  brushed, 
he  wore  a  shining  pair  of  shoes  and 
a  new  white  duck  suit. 

"You'll  make  a  hit,"  said  John 
Hogan,  looking  him  over  critically. 

"If  she's  as  good  looking  as  you  say  she  is,  I'll 
marry  her  right  away,  if  she'll  have  me,"  said  Bill, 
with  a  faraway  look  in  his  eyes. 
"She'll  have  you,"  said  several  men  in  chorus. 
"Well,  I  think  we'd  better  be  goin',"  said  Bill. 
"I'd  like  to  get  the  meeting  over." 

One  of  the  sleuths  was  detailed  to  conduct  Bill 
to  the  house  of  the  fair  lady,  and  there  was  much 
speculation  as  to  whether  the  lady  would  take  to 
Bill,  or  whether  Bill  would  take  to  the  lady.  About 
midnight  the  sleuth  and  Bill  returned.  They  were 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  83 

both  overjoyed  at  the  reception  which  they  received 
from,  Higgins'  lady. 

"She  certainly  is  a  sweet  lady,"  said  Bill,  with 
fervor,  "so  round  and  plump  and  rosy.  It  must  be 
an  awful  thing  for  a  man  to  have  to  die  and  leave 
a  woman  as  sweet  as  that  alone  in  the  world." 

The  listeners  coughed  in  a  meaning  way,  but  said 
nothing. 

"Well,  I  guess  I'll  be  goin'.  I  sure  do  thank  ye 
for  puttin'  me  next  to  the  lady." 

"Don't  mention  it,"  said  John  Hogan.  "We  feel 
sorry  for  people  that  are  lonely.  I  know.  I  meself 
believe  that  every  one  should  have  a  mate  in  this 
world.  I  want  some  one  to  love  me,  meself,  but  I 
haven't  ten  thousand  dollars,  like  you,  Bill." 

"Well,  I  guess  I'll  be  goin'  home  to  go  to  bed," 
said  Bill.  "I'll  take  a  little  run  over  to-morrow 
night,  and  I'll  have  to  get  some  rest  to-night.  Good 
night,  boys." 

"Good-night,  Bill,"  said  the  boys  in  chorus. 

Bill  ran  down  the  steps,  whistling,  and  until  his 
footsteps  died  away  in  the  distance  no  one  spoke. 
Finally  the  sleuth  said: 

"Poor  Bill;  the  poor  devil." 

"He  fell,"  said  the  story-teller. 

"Fell  worse  than  Adam  did,"  answered  the  sleuth. 
"I  first  got  her  ear  and  told  her  about  Bill's  job,  and 


84  DROLL  STORIES 

the  ten  thousand  dollars,  an',  say,  you'd  ought  to 
see  the  way  she  fawned  upon  him.  Bill  swallowed 
it  all,  and  gave  away  that  he  was  stuck  on  her,  the 
blamed  fool.  Say,  a  man  is  a  funny  animal.  He 
can  be  as  sensible  as  the  colonel  himself  in  every 
thing;  as  hard  as  nails  when  dealin'  with  men,  but 
be  as  mushy  as  a  tallow  candle  with  some  darned 
woman  that  ain't  got  more  character  than  a  mos 
quito.  That  woman'll  have  Bill  inside  of  a  month, 
an'  when  she  bleeds  him  good  an'  proper  she'll  light 
out  with  some  other  guy  that  she'll  love,  an'  leave 
poor  Bill  in  the  lurch." 

"Now,  boys,"  said  the  story-teller,  "I  want  to 
give  ye  a  tip.  Ye  all  know  Higgins'  fine,  high  feel 
ings  about  honor,  an'  if  he  hears  that  Bill  Wiley  is 
goin'  around  to  see  his  lady  he'll  come  to  Bill  an' 
tell  him  the  truth  about  her,  an'  it'll  be  all  off.  Bill 
ain't  goin'  to  marry  a  woman  that  lived  with  a  man 
that  she  wasn't  married  to.  I  know  Bill." 

"Yes,  you  know  Bill,  but  you  don't  know  human 
nature,"  said  John  Hogan.  "If  Higgins  goes  to  Bill 
an'  tells  him  about  that  woman's  past,  Bill'll  think 
that  Higgins  wants  the  woman  himself,  an'  it'll 
make  him  more  keen  to  marry  her.  He  knows  that 
he  isn't  a  circumstance  to  Higgins  on  looks,  an'  he 
knows  that  Higgins  is  a  real  lady's  man;  so,  any 
way,  you  take  it,  poor  Bill  is  doomed." 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  85 

Bill  was  doomed.  In  less  than  a  week  he  had 
showered  presents  of  silk  garments,  necklaces,  dia 
mond  rings,  bracelets  and  other  articles  of  adorn 
ment  to  the  value  of  a  thousand  dollars  upon  Hig- 
gins'  lady.  He  refurnished  her  rooms  in  fine  style 
and  gave  her  five  hundred  dollars  for  pocket  money. 
It  was  at  this  juncture  that  Higgins  called  upon  Bill 
Wiley  and  asked  him  all  about  it. 

"I  love  the  lady;  I  adore  her,"  said  Bill,  in  ecstacy. 

It  was  then  that  Higgins  told  him  of  the  woman's 
past.  They  sat  together  on  the  veranda  of  the 
bachelor  house,  while  John  Hogan,  the  sleuths,  the 
story-teller  and  some  other  bachelors  sat  huddled 
together  awaiting  the  outcome.  All  believed  that 
Bill  would  give  the  woman  up,  except  John  Hogan. 
He  knew  men,  and,  as  he  predicted,  Higgins'  revela 
tion  made  Bill  more  determined  than  ever  to  be 
come  attached  to  the  lady  by  the  bonds  of  holy  wed 
lock.  So,  when  the  boys  heard  Bill  say  to  Higgins, 
"Man,  you're  only  sore,"  they  coughed  in  unison. 

"It's  none  of  your  business.  You're  a  liar.  You're 
jealous,"  etc. 

"Poor  Higgins  is  gettin'  it  in  the  neck,"  said  the 
story-teller,  "and  it  serves  him  darn  well  right." 

"Yes,  here  are  us  fellers,  trying  to  get  her  took 
off  his  hands,  an',  because  of  his  fine  notion  of 


86  DROLL  STORIES 

honor,  he  can't  keep  his  mouth  shut.  Tis  goin'  to 
hurry  things  up,  an'  in  a  week  the  lady  will  be  tied 
up  to  Bill.  Bill'll  be  as  happy  as  a  big  sunflower, 
an'  we'll  have  young  Higgins  back  with  his  fiddle 
and  banjo  to  make  things  a  bit  lively  for  us." 


HIGGINS'   LADY. 


A 


(PAET  HI.) 

BOUT  a  week  after  Higgins  had  had 
his  heart-to-heart  talk  with  Bill  Wiley 
a  wedding  took  place,  which  was  at 
tended  by  the  story-teller,  the  sleuths, 
young  Higgins  and  John  Hogan.  It 

was  he  who  gave   the  bride  away. 

.When  the  final  words  were  spoken 
which  made  Anita  Calafain  Mrs.  William  Wiley 
a  sigh  of  relief  went  up  from  the  assembled  wit 
nesses.  Higgins'  face  was  alight  with  joy  as  he 
handed  the  bride  into  a  carriage.  Bill  Wiley  was  a 
benedict.  The  bride  wore  a  white  satin  gown, 
trimmed  with  Italian  lace,  and  a  very  beautiful 
white  hat  that  had  been  imported  at  much  cost  for 
the  occasion  of  the  wedding.  They  were  whirled 
away  to  the  strains  of  a  full  string  band,  and  then 
Higgins  said  something  that  was  strange  for  him 
to  say.  "Boys,"  said  he,  "there  is  a  God,  after  all, 
and  he  has  heard  my  prayers.  I  have  paid  dearly 
for  one  hour's  frolic  in  my  life,  but  I  am  glad  to 
night  that  I  have  done  the  right  thing,  according  tc 


88  DROLL  STORIE8 

my  code,  for  that  vain,  miserable,  wretched  woman. 
I  tried  to  save  Bill,  but  he  wouldn't  listen,  so  I  have 
done  everything  according  to  the  dictates  of  my 
conscience." 

"Bill  is  the  happiest  man  alive,  so  what  matter 
what  will  turn  up  later?"  said  John  Hogan. 

"Something  will  surely  turn  up,"  said  Higgins, 
"for  that  woman  was  born  to  torment  her  fellow- 
beings." 

"She'll  lead  Bill  around  by  the  nose,  poor  devil, 
and  he  won't  know  a  thing  about  what  will  be  going 
on  when  his  back  is  turned,"  said  one  of  the  sleuths. 

"What  the  eyes  can't  see,  the  heart  can't  feel," 
said  the  story-teller. 

"Come,  boys,"  said  Higgins,  with  sudden  hilarity, 
"let  us  get  drunk.  I  have  never  been  drunk  in  my 
life,  so  I  want  to  feel  what  the  sensation  is  like." 

So  young  Higgins  got  drunk  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life,  and  Bill  Wiley,  on  wings  of  love,  went  on 
his  honeymoon.  Six  weeks  later  the  big  bachelor 
house  was  in  a  blaze  of  light.  Every  one  was  happy. 
It  was  Saturday  night,  and  pay-night.  The  village 
ladies  and  their  husbands  wandered  through  the 
quiet  streets,  especially  near  to  the  house  where  the 
bachelors  dwelt,  for  Higgins  was  playing  the  violin, 
and  that  meant  something  to  that  village. 

"My!  What  a  change  there  has  been  in  the  lad 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  89 

s> 

since  that  baggage  got  married,"  whispered  the 
story-teller  to  one  of  the  sleuths. 

"Looks  like  a  different  man,"  put  in  John  Hogan. 

"I  wonder  how  poor  Bill  is  making  out  with  her  ?" 
asked  the  story-teller. 

"Gawd  to  tell,"  said  the  sleuth. 

"I  bet  she's  leadin'  him  a  devil  of  a  race,"  said  the 
other  sleuth. 

"They  ought  to  be  here  now.  They  went  away 
six  weeks  ago  to-day,"  said  John  Hogan. 

Just  now  Bill  Wiley  entered  that  bachelor  quarter 
and  walked  slowly  and  painfully  toward  the  group 
of  men  that  were  talking  about  him. 

"Speak  of  the  devil,  and  he'll  appear,"  said  John 
Hogan. 

"Why,  you're  looking  all  in,  Bill,"  said  the  story 
teller. 

"All  in?"  echoed  Bill.  "I'm  worse  than  that, 
boys." 

"How  is  the  lady?"  asked  one  of  the  sleuths. 

"I  don't  know  how  she  is  now,  and  I  don't  care." 

"You  don't  care?  You  don't?"  said  the  group, 
in  chorus. 

"Why,  Bill,  what's  happened?" 

"Why,  that  lady  is  a  she-devil.  She  and  her 
brother  fleeced  me  of  five  thousand  dollars.  I  ain't 
had  a  night's  rest  since  I  left  the  Isthmus  with  her. 


90  DROLL  STORIES 

She  never  give  me  a  lovin'  word  nor  a  lovin'  look, 
nor  a  minute's  peace  of  mind." 

"And  where  is  she  now,  Bill?"  asked  John  Hogan. 

"Gawd  knows.  I  lit  out  and  left  her  with  the 
man  that  she  said  was  her  brother  in  Havana." 

"What  sort  of  a  looking  man  was  he?"  asked 
Higgins,  becoming  interested. 

"He  was  the  goldurndest  lookin-  pirate  that  I  ever 
seen  in  all  my  life,"  answered  Bill,  becoming  very 
red  in  the  face." 

"Tell  us  all  about  it,  Bill,"  said  Higgins,  drawing 
his  chair  very  near,  and  speaking  in  a  kindly  tone. 

"Well,  the  night  we  left  ye  fellers  and  went  to 
Colon,  the  pirate  showed  up  for  the  first  time,  an' 
he  come  with  us  to  the  hotel;  so  the  lady  said  that 
she  wanted  a  room  all  to  herself,  an'  I  took  a  room 
for  myself.  In  the  morning  I  went  and  paid  the 
bills,  but  I  didn't  pay  his,  and  he  pulled  a  gun  on 
me;  he  carried  four  all  ready  for  use.  Then  I  went 
an'  bought  our  ticket  an'  she  said  she  wouldn't  go 
unless  I  took  her  dear  brother;  so,  for  peace  sake, 
I  bought  a  ticket  for  him.  Then  she  said  she  wanted 
her  dear  brother  to  have  a  stateroom  next  ours, 
an'  for  peace  sake  I  had  to  let  him  have  it.  Well, 
sir,  they  treated  me  like  a  nigger  waiter  during  the 
trip,  an',  for  peace  sake,  I  couldn't  say  nothin'.  All 
the  men  on  the  ship  was  in  love  with  her,  but  they 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  91 

said  that  the  pirate  wan't  her  brother  at  all;  that  he 
was  a  guy  that  she  was  in  love  with,  an'  I  had  to 
stand  for  it.  They  said  I  was  a  fool  for  puttin'  up 
with  things  the  way  I  did,  an',  say,  I  sure  was;  but 
what  could  I  do,  when  that  guy  had  a  gun  in  every 
pocket  an'  didn't  think  it  was  any  more  harm  to 
use  one  on  me  than  if  I  was  a  rat  ?  Well,  to  make 
a  long  story  short,  they  got  me  in  a  room  in  the 
hotel  in  Havana  the  night  before  I  left,  an'  they 
cleaned  me  out  of  every  cent  I  had,  then  he  pointed 
a  gun  at  me  an'  told  me  to  leave  the  hotel  without 
sayin'  anythin',  or  he'd  riddle  me  with  bullets.  I 
pretended  to  swaller  the  diamond  ring,  an'  they  fell 
for  that  bluff,  so  I  pawned  it  the  next  day  to  pay 
my  passage  down  here ;  an'  here  I  am.  Five  thousand 
of  me  money  is  gone,  an'  all  me  clothes,  me  gold 
watch  and  chain,  an'  I'm  feelin'  like  a  damm  fool. 
My  stomach  ain't  workin'  any  more,  an'  the  first 
thing  I'll  have  to  do  will  be  to  see  Dr.  Deeks,  for 
I'm  feelin'  bum." 

During  this  narration  the  group  exchanged  mean 
ing  glances.  Higgins  looked  like  a  man  dazed,  and 
beads  of  perspiration  fell  from  his  forehead.  For 
five  minutes  there  was  silence,  and  then  the  story 
teller  said,  with  calmness :  "No  good  ever  yet  come 
out  of  a  man  bein'  as  honorable  as  Higgins.  It  ain't 
right.  If  he  hadn't  been  so  darned  honorable  about 


92  DROLL  STORIES 

that  lady  he'd  a  sent  her  about  her  business,  an' 
poor  Bill  wouldn't  be  in  this  mess." 

"My  life  is  spoiled,"  said  Bill,  with  a  sob.  "I 
never  could  trust  another  lady  in  this  world,  an' 
besides,  I'm  married  to  her  now,  anyway.  Here's 
the  situation:  I'm  a  ruined  an'  broken  man,  an'  it's 
all  on  account  of  Higgins." 

"Yes,  you're  right,  Bill,"  said  Higgins.  "I'm  the 
cause  of  all  your  troubles.  The  lady  put  it  all  over 
us  for  fair.  She  got  about  three  thousand  dollars 
out  of  me,  and  her  bluff  prevented  me  from  marry 
ing  the  best  little  girl  in  the  U.  S.  A." 

"  Tis  no  use  talkin',  a  woman  can  make  a 
monkey  of  a  man,"  said  John  Hogan. 

"But  life  is  no  good  without  'em,"  said  the  story 
teller. 

"I  don't  see  how  I'm  goin'  to  live  without  her," 
said  Bill.  "I  can't  forget  her." 

"You  will  have  to,  I'm  afraid,"  said  Higgins,  "for 
that  man  whom  she  called  her  brother  was  the 
fellow  she  used  to  call  husband  in  the  old  war  days. 

Some  months  later  Bill  Wiley  was  called  to  the 
great  tribunal  at  Culebra.  When  he  arrived  there 
he  was  requested  to  support  his  wife,  whom  he  had 
wilfully  abandoned  in  Havana.  Complaint  had 
been  made  by  the  American  Consul  that  the  wife  of 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  93 

Bill  Wiley,  of  the  Canal  Zone,  was  suffering  for 
the  necessities  of  life. 

"Well,  here's  where  I'll  take  a  hand,"  said  Higgins. 
"Gawd  bless  you,"  said  Bill  Wiley,  "for  I  sure  am 
in  bad." 

So  Higgins  took  passage  for  Havana,  and,  some 
few  days  after,  Bill  Wiley  received  the  following 
cablegram  : 

"Our  lady  and  the  pirate  are  in  the  penitentiary. 

"HIGGINS." 


THE  GANG  IN  NUMBER  10. 


T 


HE  highbrows  of  Number  10  were 
having  an  argument  as  they  sat  in  the 
dim  light  of  the  veranda  of  the  big 
bachelor  house. 

It  was  Saturday  night,  and  the  less 
intellectual  inmates  were  in  the  city 
seeing  the  sights. 
"I  guess  I'll  play  a  tune,"  said  Higgins,  who  was 
one  of  the  group. 

That  was  just  what  had  happened  every  Saturday 
night  since  fate  had  brought  the  men  together. 

Iky  Gillstein,  who  had  formerly  been  a  Jew,  but 
who  now  read  Schopenhauer  and  quoted  him  on 
every  occasion,  and  John  Hogan,  who  read  such 
books  as  A.  Kempis'  "Life  of  Christ,"  and  who 
quoted  him  whenever  Iky  quoted  his  favorite 
philosopher,  had  the  argument,  as  was  their  custom, 
and  when  Higgins  found  that  it  had  gone  far  enough 
he  played  his  violin  until  the  Celtic  and  Semetic 
tempers  had  cooled  down  to  normal. 

In  the  gang  were  Bill  Wiley,  who  had  been  dis 
appointed  in  love,  and,  later,  in  marriage,  and  had 
taken  to  reading  deep  books  as  an  antidote  for  the 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  95 

poison  of  love,  and  George  Toby,  who  read  the 
books  that  John  Hogan  read,  in  order  to  criticize 
and  argue  about  them;  then  there  was  Fuller,  who 
stepped  in  with  a  final  word  that  always  put  an  end 
to  the  argument. 

Fuller  was,  according  to  John  Hogan,  the  "most 
knowledgable"  man  on  the  Isthmus  of  Panama, 
except,  of  course,  the  Colonel  himself. 

The  men  of  Number  10  were  nicknamed  "The 
Highbrows"  because  of  their  studious  habits  and 
intellectual  conversation.  Higgins  had  reorganized 
that  bachelor  house  and  brought  peace  and  harmony 
out  of  chaos.  The  clerks,  or  penpushers,  he  had 
segregated  to  one  end  of  the  building,  and  the  men 
who  were  engaged  in  work  of  a  more  strenuous 
nature  he  placed  farthest  from  the  dude  clerks,  and 
because  of  this  there  was  less  ill-feeling  than  in 
most  other  habitations  of  the  kind  on  the  Isthmus. 

As  I  said  before,  the  highbrows  were  smoking  on 
the  dimly  lit  veranda,  and  Higgins  had  just  started 
to  play  the  violin. 

"I'mi  glad  to  see  you  all,  boys,"  said  a  voice  from 
somewhere  outside.  "Who's  that?"  asked  John 
Hogan,  peering  through  the  wire  netting. 

"  Tis  only  me,  boys,"  answered  the  voice. 

"It's  that  damm  fool  Percy  again,"  said  Iky, 
under  his  breath. 


96  &ROLL  STORIES 

"Come  in,  Percy,"  said  Higgins,  in  a  cordial  tone. 

"Well,  she's  gone  for  good  this  time,  boys,  and 
.I'm  all  in."  The  listeners  groaned. 

"Have  you  tried  to  get  her  back?"  asked  Higgins. 

"I've  tried  in  every  way,  but  she  hides  from  me, 
and  says  she  hates  me.  Oh,  God!  What  shall  I 
do?  I  can't  get  along  without  my  queen.  I  love 
her,  boys.  I  love  her  more  than  my  soul,  and  God 
knows  I  treated  her  well,"  said  Percy,  dropping  into 
a  chair  and  mopping  his  brow;  "but  I  won't  live 
long,  boys.  I  feel  the  last  string  of  my  heart  giving 
way.  I'm  a  goner.  I  don't  want  to  live.  I  have  a 
little  bottle  of  poison  in  my  pocket  right  now,  and 
if  my  heart  don't  break  soon,  I'll  take  it  and  shuffle 
off." 

"How  long  have  you  been  married  to  the  lady?" 
asked  John  Hogan. 

"Three  years,"  said  Percy,  with  a  long-drawn 
sigh. 

"You  ought  to  be  pretty  tired  of  her  by  this 
time,"  said  Iky  Gillstein.  "If  I  had  a  woman  around 
the  house  with  me  for  three  years  I'd  be  darned 
glad  to  get  rid  of  her." 

"You're  a  brute,  Iky,"  said  Bill  Wiley,  "and  you 
ain't  got  no  more  heart  than  a  woman.  I  kin  put 
myself  in  your  place,  Percy;  I've  been  through  it, 
boy.  Why,  when  that  lady  that  I  married  throwed 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  97 

me  down,  two  years  ago,  I  couldn't  eat,  sleep,  nor 
think.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  Higgins  an'  Hogan,  I'd 
'a'  gone  mad,  an'  took  poison,  an'  God  knows  I 
had  poison  enough  in  my  system.  What's  love  but 
poison?" 

"Love  is  a  loco  germ,  Bill,"  said  Percy  dramati 
cally,  "an'  when  it  enters  a  fellow's  system  it  ain't 
any  use  squirmin'.  He  might  as  well  take  his  medi 
cine." 

"Love  left  many  a  man  in  a  darned  bad  stew," 
said  John  Hogan,  "an'  a  guy  that  'ud  fall  in  love 
twice  ought  to  be  put  in  the  bughouse." 

"I've  been  there  many  a  time,"  said  Percy.  "That 
time  I  was  in  the  Jameson  raid  in  South  Africa. 
I  wouldn't  have  been  in  it  if  I  hadn't  been  bad  stuck 
on  a  girl  that  threw  me  down.  The  listeners 
coughed  and  exchanged  glances.  They  had  heard 
many  times  of  the  Jameson  raiders  from  Percy,  and 
they  had  even  seen  the  marks  on  his  feet  where 
he  had  been  tied  up  by  his  heels. 

"Schopenhauer  says  that  women  are — "  "Shut 
up  about  that  old  Dutch  heathen,  for  God's  sake," 
said  John  Hogan,  testily. 

"There  is  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  what  he  says 
about  women,"  put  in  Toby. 

"How  in  God's  name  could  a  heathen  tell  the 
truth?"  asked  Hogan,  as  he  refilled  his  pipe. 


98  DROLL  STORIES 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Fuller,  "that  I've  been 
reading  A.  Kempis'  'Life  of  Christ,'  and  it  is  the 
best  life  of  Him  that  I  ever  read.  He  was  a  humor 
ist,  wasn't  He?" 

"He  was  that,  as  well  as  every  other  thing,"  said 
John  Hogan,  approvingly. 

"I  have  never  heard  Him  spoken  of  as  a  humorist 
before,"  put  in  Higgins.  Iky  Gillstein  grunted. 

"Wasn't  it  humorous  of  Him  that  time  the 
Sheenies  were  going  to  stone  that  Merry  Widow 
to  death,  when  He  said,  'Prepare,'  and  they  all  got 
ready  with  their  little  pile  of  rocks,  and  they  stood 
scratching  their  heads,  waiting  for  Christ  to  speak, 
and  when  He  spoke  He  said,  as  the  Merry  Widow 
knelt  at  His  feet,  'Let  ye  that  are  without  fault 
throw  the  first  stone,'  and  the  devil  a  rock  they 
threw,  and  the  Merry  Widow  went  her  way  in 
peace  and  behaved  herself  ever  after?" 

"The  Merry  Widow  gave  the  gang  the  wink," 
said  Iky,  cynically. 

"That's  like  something  the  Colonel  would  do," 
said  Percy.  "In  fact,  he  done  something  slick  like 
that  to  me  once.  It  was  when  I  was  living  at 
Empire  with  my  first  wife,  before  she  got  the 
divorce  and  I  married  my  darling  that  has  just  left 
me. 

"I  was  an  inspector  then,  and  my  job  was  tq 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  99 

look  after  women  that  were  supposed  to  be  a  little 
bit  shady.  My  wife  was  jealous  of  me,  and  I  had 
to  pretend  that  I  didn't  like  the  work. 

"Well,  anyway,  there  was  one  particular  woman 
who  was  a  little  beauty,  and  I  got  kind  of  stuck  on 
her,  but  there  was  nothing  doing  with  me.  She 
loved  the  guy  that  her  husband  was  suspicious  of, 
but  she  gave  me  an  introduction  to  a  woman  who 
was  almost  as  good-looking,  but  who  didn't  have 
her  charms. 

"About  this  time  her  husband  went  on  night  duty, 
and  he  sent  in  to  Culebra  to  have  his  wife  watched, 
so  I  was  sent  out  to  do  the  watching.  I  prolonged 
the  case  all  I  could,  and  reported  that  I  couldn't 
find  any  clew,  while  all  the  time  I  was  havin'  a 
howling  time  at  her  house  nights.  She  used  to 
have  stuff  to  drink,  and  she  and  the  guy  I  was  sup 
posed  to  shadow  and  the  woman  that  she  introduced 
me  to  would  eat  and  drink,  play  cards  and  love. 

"Finally  the  neighbors  began  to  catch  on,  and  I 
was  afraid  that  they  might  come  around  with  some 
other  gumshoe  man  who'd  report,  and  then  the 
jig  would  be  up,  so  I  sent  in  a  report  that  there 
was  nothing  wrong  in  the  conduct  of  the  woman. 

"A  copy  of  this  letter  was  sent  to  her  husband, 
and  he  was  so  tickled  and  so  sorry  that  he  had  sus 
pected  her  that  he  told  her  that  she  might  have  a 


100  DROLL  STORIES 

vacation  for  three  months,  and  he  gave  her  five 
hundred  dollars,  and  she  went  away  to  her  home  in 
the  South;  and  the  petted  gink  who  didn't  have  a 
cent  to  his  name  went  on  the  next  boat,  met  her 
in  Kansas  City,  and  they  went  to  Quebec  and 
stayed  there  till  the  five  hundred  was  used  up.  Then 
she  wrote  to  her  husband  that  she  couldn't  live  any 
longer  away  from  him,  so  he  sent  her  a  couple  of 
hundred  more  to  bring  her  back  to  the  Isthmus. 

"Meantime  my  affair  was  hot  stuff  with  the  other 
one,  and  I  used  to  meet  her  in  town  three  times  a 
week.  I  was  kept  pretty  busy,  because  the  women 
were  cutting  up  scandalously  all  along  the  line,  and 
we  deported  a  lot  of  them. 

"To  make  a  long  story  shorter,  I  had  made  a 
date  to  meet  my  loving  kid  in  town  one  Saturday, 
but  my  wife  said  that  she  wanted  to  come  in  with 
me.  I  telephoned  a  guy  who  knew  everything 
about  me,  a  friend  he  was,  and  he  sent  me  a  tele 
gram  and  signed  it  with  the  name  of  the  Captain 
of  Police.  When  my  wife  saw  that  she  said  she'd 
wait  and  go  some  other  day,  because  she  didn't 
want  to  interfere  with  my  duty. 

"Right  then  a  message  came  from  the  Colonel 
stating  that  he  wanted  to  see  me.  I  suspected  that 
it  was  another  case  for  me  to  go  out  on,  so  I 
hurried  down  to  the  station,  jumped  on  to  a  hand- 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  101 

car  and  got  to  Culebra  in  time  to  have  the  inter 
view  over  and  catch  the  1  p.  m.  train  for  Panama. 

"I'll  never  forget  the  look  in  the  Colonel's  eyes 
when  I  went  in  and  stood  before  him. 

"  'What  cases  have  you  on  hand  now?'  says  he, 
looking  me  over,  from  the  crown  of  my  head  to  the 
tops  of  my  shoes. 

"  'Women  cases,  Colonel,'  says  I. 

"  That's  well,'  says  he,  kind  of  mild,  and  he  gave 
nte  that  funny  look  again.  'You  like  to  hunt  them 
down?' 

"I  didn't  like  his  voice,  but  he  turned  away  and 
began  to  sign  some  papers.  He  had  said  it,  how 
ever,  in  that  calm,  even  tone  of  his,  and  I  thought 
he  meant  it,  so  I  said,  'I  try  to  do  my  duty,  Colo 
nel.' 

"Then  he  gave  me  a  very  funny  look,  and,  says 
he,  with  awful  calmness,  as  he  picked  up  a  big,  fat 
envelope  from  the  desk,  'Take  this  and  report  to  me 
Monday  afternoon.' 

"He  turned  again  to  his  papers,  and  I  tiptoed  out. 
There  was  something  strange  about  the  atmosphere 
of  that  office  that  affected  me,  but  I  put  the  en 
velope  in  my  inside  pocket,  and  as  I  had  to  run  like 
mad  to  catch  the  train,  I  forgot  all  about  it. 

"It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  the  woman  to  tell  about 
the  good  time  I  had  in  town  that  afternoon,  and  I 


102  DROLL  STORIES 

didn't  get  back  home  that  night  till  the  last  train. 
The  wife  was  waiting  up  for  me,  and  she  had  some 
good  grub  ready  for  me  to  eat,  a  club  sandwich, 
some  salad  and  a  bottle  of  cold  beer.  She  chatted 
and  laughed  and  said  she  was  getting  a  new  dress 
made  and  she  wanted  a  couple  of  dollars  to  buy 
some  lace  for  the  sleeves  and  neck,  but  I  told  her  I 
couldn't  give  her  any  more  money  until  after  next 
pay  day.  When  I  told  her  that  she  gave  me  a  funny 
look  that  made  me  feel  like  I  felt  when  the  Colonel 
looked  at  me  in  such  a  queer  way  that  forenoon. 
She  didn't  say  another  word,  but  went  off  to  bed, 
and  I  took  the  envelope  from  my  pocket  and  tore 
it  open.  I  was  going  to  read  what  was  inside  that 
night,  but  the  lights  went  out  and  didn't  come  on 
again,  so  I  laid  it  on  the  sideboard  in  the  dining- 
room,  and  turned  in  myself. 

"In  the  morning  I  got  up  to  eat  my  breakfast, 
but  there  was  no  breakfast  ready,  no  wife  in  sight, 
and  no  fire.  Thinks  I,  I'll  go  to  the  mess  hall  an' 
get  my  breakfast,  so  I  went  to  put  on  my  coat,  and 
I  found  the  big  envelope  pinned  to  the  sleeve. 
When  I  opened  it  my  wife's  wedding  ring  fell  out. 
Tied  to  this  was  a  bit  of  paper,  and  on  this  was 
written,  in  my  wife's  handwriting,  'If  you  had  been 
honorable  about  the  secrets  of  others,  your  own 
secrets  would  not  have  been  betrayed  to  me.' 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  103 

"I  sat  down  then  and  read  the  papers.  Every 
thing  that  I  had  ever  done  on  the  Isthmus  since  I 
came  was  known  to  the  Colonel. 

'My  God!'  says  I  to  myself,  'what  am  I  going 
to  do?  There's  going  to  be  about  ten  husbands 
around  with  shotguns,  so  I'd  better  get  away.' 

"I  went  to  Culebra  on  Monday,  though  I  hated 
to  do  it.  I  saw  it  was  all  over  with  me,  so  I  put  on 
a  bold  front  when  I  went  into  the  Colonel's  office. 
'Well,'  I  says,  when  I  was  inside  the  door,  'I  guess 
I'm  through.' 

"  'Yes,'  says  the  Colonel  calmly,  'your  wife  will 
go  to-morrow  afternoon.  Better  prepare  to  follow 
her  soon.' 

"Well  the  wife  went,  and  I  have  not  seen  her 
since.  She  got  a  divorce  from  me,  and  then  I  mar 
ried  my  queen,  who  is  gone  astray  now." 

The  listeners  coughed,  and  Gillstein,  who  had 
listened  attentively  during  the  whole  of  the  recital, 
said:  "But  you  didn't  tell  us  how  you  got  back 
here." 

"I  never  went  away,"  said  Percy.  "I  resigned 
from  the  Commission,  but  after  a  time  I  went  to 
the  Colonel  again  and  told  him  I  was  hard  up  and 
my  wife  was  sick  in  the  States,  and  he  gave  me,  for 
her  sake,  the  dump  foreman's  job.  It  was  after 
that  that  I  married  again." 


104  DROLL  STORIES 

"Where  did  you  meet  your  second  wife?"  asked 
John  Hogan. 

"Suppose  we  change  the  subject,"  said  Higgins 
quickly. 

Gillstein  winked  at  Hogan,  and  there  was  a  pause, 
which  was  finally  broken  by  Percy,  who  said  calm 
ly:  "I  met  her  in  a  resort  on  Cash  Street,  Colon, 
and  I'm  afraid  she'll  go  back  there  now,  and  that's 
what's  eatin'  my  heart  out.  .  .  .  Well,  I  must 
go  out  to  Panama  now.  It's  nearly  ten  o'clock.  I 
spend  my  nights  watching  her.  Good  night,  fel 
lows.  Thanks  for  talking  to  me  and  trying  to 
cheer  me  up." 

"Good  night,"  said  the  Highbrows  in  chorus. 

Percy  tiptoed  out  softly,  and  his  stealthy  foot 
steps  had  died  away  in  the  distance  before  the  silence 
was  broken,  again  by  Gillstein,  who  said :  "It  can't 
be  true,  after  all,  that  all  men  are  just  dead,  and 
that  there's  no  more  about  'em.  There's  a  special 
little  Hell  somewhere  for  Percy  Beckle." 

"Now  you're  talking  like  a  Christian,"  said  John 
Hogan.  "Play  us  The  Wearing  of  the  Green,' 
Higgins." 


THE  MAN  FROM  NUMBER  9. 


T 


HE  fellows  in  Number  9  are  all  upset 
over  that  new  man,"  said  Bill  Wiley, 
as  he  filled  his  pipe  and  prepared  to 
settle  himself  to  read  "Three  Weeks," 
a  book  that  very  much  interested  him. 
"What  new  man?"  asked  John 
Hogan. 

"A  new  man  that  the  Colonel  sent  over.  He's  a 
timekeeper,  and  is  getting  only  about  $73  a  month," 
answered  Bill. 

"What's  the  matter  with  him?"  quickly  asked 
Higgins. 

"The  fellers  say  that  he's  been  a  jailbird,  an'  they 
don't  want  him  in  the  house.  Some  of  'em  tele 
phoned  to  the  Colonel,  but  he  did  not  give  'em  any 
satisfaction,  only  said  that  he  desired  the  man  to 
stay  in  Number  9;  that  he  sent  him  to  Balboa,  and 
that  if  any  of  the  men  complained  about  living 
with  him  they  could  get  out  themselves." 

"That's  just  like  the  Colonel,"  said  Higgins. 
"What  business  is  it  of  that  bunch  of  mutts  if  the 
poor  devil  has  been  in  jail,  if  he's  behaving  himself 
now?" 


106  DROLL  STORIES 

"Schopenhauer  says  that  all  men  are — "  began 
Ikey. 

"For  the  love  of  Mike,  don't  spring  him  on  us 
again,"  said  Wiley.  "I  thought  you  had  given  up 
reading  his  book,  anyway,"  he  continued. 

"He  says  some  darn  good  things,"  said  Ikey. 

"But  not  about  his  fellow-creatures,  an'  the  per 
son  under  discussion  is  a  man,  an'  not  a  dawg/' 
said  Hogan,  tersely. 

"Let's  hear  more  about  this  new  man,  Bill,"  said 
Higgins. 

"He's  a  sickly-looking  guy  that  drags  one  leg 
after  him  when  he  walks,  an'  he's  got  a  funny  habit 
of  looking  over  his  shoulder  whenever  he  goes  to 
speak  about  anything.  He's  got  a  dry  sort  of  cough 
that  gives  me  the  creeps,  and  the  boys  say  he's 
always  a  prayin'  when  he's  in  his  room." 

"Poor  devil,  he's  got  all  the  marks  of  the  jailbird 
about  him.  I  wonder  what  he  was  in  for,"  mused 
Hogan,  more  to  himself  than  to  the  others.  "I'll 
send  'A.  Kempis'  down  to  him;  it  might  give  him 
some  consolation." 

"I  don't  believe  he'll  get  a  chance  to  read  it," 
said  Bill,  "because  the  fellers  say  that  there's  a  gang 
goin'  in  town  to-night  to  get  drunk,  an'  they're 
goin'  to  put  him  out,  bag  and  baggage,  when  they 
come  back.  In  the  morning  no  one  will  know  who 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  107 

done  it,  an'  the  Colonel  can't  fire  them  all,  for 
there's  about  ninety  of  them  in  the  house." 

There  was  silence  now,  but  Hogan  looked  at  I  key, 
Ikey  looked  at  Higgins,  and  a  glance  full  of  mean 
ing  passed  between  the  three  men. 

"What's  the  man's  name?"  asked  Higgins,  break 
ing  the  silence  at  last. 

"I  didn't  ask  his  name,"  answered  Bill.  "I  only 
know  what  the  boys  have  been  telling  me.  I'm 
glad  the  mutt  ain't  in  this  house." 

"Why?"  asked  Hogan.  "What  would  a  rough 
neck  like  you  be  afraid  of?" 

"Well,  I  have  some  good  clothes  an'  a  fine 
gold  watch,  some  few  trinkets  an'  little  things  that 
I'd  like  to  keep,"  he  replied. 

"Who'd  take  'em?"  asked  Hogan. 

"Ignorance  is  an  awful  thing,"  put  in  Ikey. 
"  Twould  do  you  good  to  read  Schopenhauer." 

"  'Pon  me  soul,  it  would,"  agreed  Hogan,  with 
spirit. 

"I'm  going  out  for  a  few  minutes,"  suddenly  ex 
claimed  Higgins,  and  he  glanced  meaningly  at  Ikey. 

"I'll  move  that  trunk  out,"  said  Ikey,  "and  put 
up  that  other  bedstead,  an'  then  I'll  only  have  one 
mattress  to  sleep  on,  but  that's  more  than  many 
people  have." 

"True  enough,"  said  Hogan.     "Why  don't  the 


108  DROLL  STORIES 

Colonel  put  a  guy  like  that  off  in  a  place  by  him 
self,  and  build  a  little  house  for  him?  It  wouldn't 
cost  the  Commission  much,  an'  it  would  save  the 
men  a  lot  of  trouble,"  put  in  Bill. 

"If  the  Colonel  was  to  build  a  house  for  all  the 
jailbirds  on  the  Isthmus,"  said  Ikey,  "it  would  cost 
the  Commission  more  than  the  diggin'  of  the  canal." 

At  this  point  in  the  conversation  Higgins  put  on 
his  hat  and  went  out,  and  Ikey  went  to  his  room. 
Hogan  walked  restlessly  to  and  fro,  while  Wiley, 
stretching  himself  luxuriously,  once  more  picked  up 
"Three  Weeks"  and  became  deeply  interested. 
More  than  an  hour  passed,  during  which  time  not 
a  word  was  spoken  by  the  men  on  the  veranda. 

Finally  Ikey  came  back  and  sat  down,  with  the 
air  of  a  man  who  has  been  working,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  Higgins  came  in,  whistling.  Accompany 
ing  Higgins  was  a  tall,  gaunt  mart,  who  had  wild, 
staring  eyes,  a  pale,  refined  face,  and  white  hair. 

"Mr.  Prayer,  meet  Mr.  Hogan,  Mr.  Wiley  and 
Mr.  Gillstein,"  said  Higgins,  leading  the  man  for 
ward. 

Bill  Wiley  nodded  his  head  coldly  and  grunted, 
but  Hogan  and  Ikey  extended  their  hands,  and  then 
they  pushed  forward  toward  the  stranger  a  rocking- 
chair. 

"Mr.  Prayer  is  tired,"  said  Higgins,  as  he  himself 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  109 

sat  down.  "He  has  been  on  the  Isthmus  only  two 
weeks,  and  he  has  had  very  little  sleep  since  he 
came." 

"I  have  the  bed  all  ready  for  him,"  said  Ikey. 
"It's  got  clean  sheets  on  it,  and  he  can  turn  in 
whenever  he  likes." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  man,  quietly,  "but  I'd 
rather  sit  here  and  smoke  a  little  before  turning  in." 

"Help  yourself,"  said  Hogan,  pushing  a  box  of 
tobacco  toward  him;  "and  here's  matches." 

For  some  moments  the  men  smoked  in  silence, 
Bill  Wiley  eyeing  the  stranger  meanwhile. 

"You  men  are  mighty  civil  to  me,"  suddenly 
spoke  up  the  stranger.  "I  did  not  think  there  was 
any  one  on  the  Isthmus  that  had  any  heart.  I'll 
take  that  back,  though,  for  there  is  one  man  who 
has  been  pretty  nice  to  me.  He  had  trouble  him 
self  once,  poor  fellow." 

"They  used  you  purty  rough  over  in  9,  didn't 
they?"  asked  Bill  Wiley,  speaking  for  the  first  time. 

"They  surely  did.  They  didn't  let  me  sleep 
nights.  My  roommate  would  not  let  me  stay  in  the 
room  nights  with  him.  When  I'd  manage  to  doze 
off  for  a  few  minutes  he  would  throw  things  at  me 
and  wake  me  up. 

"I've  seen  some  rough  men  in  the  course  of 
twenty-five  years  in  Sing  Sing,  but  none  of  them. 


110  DROLL  STORIES 

could  beat  that  crowd  for  viciousness  and  general 
all-around  cussedness. 

"For  a  while  I  lived  on  the  stuff  I  could  get  from 
the  Chinese  shops,  because  they  said  that  I  would 
not  be  allowed  to  go  into  the  mess  hall,  but  when  my 
little  hoard  of  money  was  used  up  I  went  hungry." 

"Poor  devil,"  muttered  Hogan,  under  his  breath. 

"How  did  you  happen  to  get  into  Sing  Sing?" 
asked  Bill  Wiley,  suspiciously. 

"I  was  convicted  of  killing  a  girl,"  said  the  man 
from  Number  9,  with  a  shudder. 

"But  you  didn't  do  it,  I  know,"  said  Ikey,  who 
had  been  an  interested  listener  to  the  conversation 
which  had  gone  on  before. 

"Since  you  men  are  so  kind  as  to  take  me  in,  1 
will  tell  you  about  it  if  you  will  listen,"  said  the 
new  man,  hesitatingly. 

"Go  ahead,"  said  Wiley.  "I'm  anxious  to  hear 
about  it.  I  came  near  killing  a  lady  myself  once." 

The  men  filled  their  pipes,  drew  their  chairs  close 
to  the  man  from  Number  9,  and  waited  expectantly. 

"I  was  sentenced  to  be  hanged  twenty-five  years 
ago  for  murdering  a  girl  who  is  to-day  alive  and 
happy,"  he  began.  As  he  spoke,  he  dropped  his 
voice  to  a  low,  intense  whisper,  and  looked  over 
his  shoulder  in  such  a  horrified  way  as  to  make 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  Ill 

Higgins  and  Hogan  each  grasp  one  of  his  hands  and 
hold  it  firmly. 

"Why  didn't  they  hang  you?"  asked  Ikey,  child 
ishly. 

"While  I  was  in  the  death  house,"  went  on  the 
man,  as  though  he  had  not  heard  the  question,  but 
answering  it,  nevertheless,  "some  women  got  inter 
ested  in  me,  and  they  engaged  one  of  the  best  crimi 
nal  lawyers  in  New  York  State  to  take  up  my  case, 
and  he  finally  had  the  sentence  commuted  to  life 
imprisonment. 

"To  go  back,"  he  went  on,  "I  was  a  printer  by 
trade,  and  when  my  father  died  he  left  me  enough 
money  to  buy  a  little  printing  plant  that  would 
have  made  me  independently  rich.  It  was  in  one 
of  the  biggest  towns  in  the  western  part  of  New 
York  State,  and  I  was  making  money. 

"I  had  a  fine  saddle  horse,  and  in  summer  I  used 
to  ride  out  about  twenty  miles  to  a  cottage  that  my 
father  bought  before  he  died.  It  was  in  a  very 
lonely  place,  with  nothing  about  it  but  woods. 

"About  three  miles  away  from  the  cottage  was 
the  summer  home  of  some  people  from  New  York 
City,  and  five  miles  away  the  Sheriff  lived.  My 
habit  was  to  ride  out  to  the  house,  sleep  there  all 
night  on  a  cot  bed,  and  ride  back  to  town  in  the 
morning  about  sunrise, 


112  DROLL  STORIES 

"I  used  to  meet  a  girl  on  horseback  sometimes 
when  riding  in  the  early  mornings,  and  she  would 
ride  along  with  me  to  a  branch  road,  where  she 
would  turn  and  leave  me. 

"1  met  her  every  morning  that  was  fine  for  about 
three  months,  and  at  times  she  would  chat  and 
laugh  pleasantly,  but  she  never  allowed  me  to  be 
come  very  well  acquainted  with  her.  I  told  her  all 
about  myself,  but  when  I  would  ask  her  her  name 
and  something  about  herself,  she  would  frown  and 
turn  the  conversation. 

"Finally  I  found  myself  in  love  with  her,  and  one 
morning  I  told  her  so.  Then  she  looked  very 
serious,  and  said  she  was  sorry,  but  she  loved  an 
other  man,  and  that  her  love  for  the  man  had 
brought  nothing  but  trouble  into  her  life.  When 
we  came  to  the  cross-roads  she  reached  out  her 
hand  to  me  and  said,  'Goodbye.' 

"I  felt  something  like  a  shot  in  my  side,  right 
under  my  heart,  as  I  turned  away  from  her,  and  the 
touch  of  her  hand  thrilled  me,  so  I  stopped  the  horse 
and  looked  after  her. 

"She  had  a  peculiar,  mysterious  face  that  appealed 
strangely  to  me  that  morning,  and  although  I  felt 
hurt  and  resentful,  I  galloped  after  her,  overtook 
her,  and  said :  'Girl,  if  you  ever  need  a  friend,  call 
on  me,'  and  I  handed  her  a  card,  which  had  my 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  113 

town  address  on  it.  The  only  answer  she  made 
was  to  rein  in  her  Ahorse  and  look  searchingly  into 
my  face. 

"I  could  see  that  something  was  moving  her 
strangely,  and  I  said:  'What  is  the  matter?  I  feel 
that  you  are  in  some  trouble.  What  can  I  do  to 
help  you  now?' 

"  'Give  me  the  keys  to  your  cottage/  she  said 
finally,  'and  don't  ride  out  here  for  a  few  days.  I 
want  to  hide  there  until  my  husband  comes  for  me.' 

"  'You  have  a  husband  ?'  I  blurted  out  in  surprise. 

"  'Yes,'  said  she,  'I  was  married  a  year  ago,  but 
no  one  must  know  it  now.  I  live  with  my  father 
and  stepmother.' 

"While  she  was  speaking  the  tears  were  running 
down  her  cheeks,  and  I  was  too  hurt  to  speak,  but 
I  handed  her  the  key,  and  rode  away  as  quickly  as 
I  could.  1  never  saw  her  again  until  three  months 
ago. 

"Two  weeks  later  I  was  arrested  for  having  mur 
dered  her.  I  was  in  my  office  one  morning,  when 
the  sheriff  came  and  took  me  to  view  the  spot  where 
the  deed  was  supposed  to  have  been  committed. 
She  was  supposed  to  have  been  killed  by  me  while 
in  her  bed.  The  cottage  door  was  locked,  and  the 
key  to  it  was  in  my  vest  pocket.  I  had  had  two 


114  DROLL  STORIES 

keys  to  the  front  door  of  the  place,  the  one  I  gave 
her  and  the  one  which  helped  to  convict  me. 

"Her  trinkets  were  found  in  a  bedroom,  some 
clothing,  a  pair  of  slippers,  and  my  business  card. 
There  was  blood  on  the  straw  matting  in  the  bed 
room  which  the  girl  had  occupied;  there  was  blood 
on  the  chairs,  on  the  dresser,  and  on  the  stairs;  in 
the  front  hall  as  far  as  the  front  door,  and  on  the 
front  porch,  as  if  some  one  bleeding  had  walked 
or  had  been  carried  down  the  stairs  and  out  upon 
the  front  veranda.  Every  door  and  window  was 
carefully  bolted,  so  it  was  evident  that  the  murderer 
had  entered  through  the  door  with  the  help  of  a  key, 
and  had  carefully  locked  the  door  behind  him  in 
going  out.  A  sheet  had  been  torn  to  shreds,  and 
some  of  it  was  missing. 

"I  told  my  story,  but  it  had  no  weight  in  court. 
The  girl  had  never  been  away  from  home,  according 
to  her  father  and  the  servants,  except  mornings  for 
a  short  ride,  when  it  was  proven  that  she  had  met 
me.  More  than  twenty  people  testified  that  I  had 
been  to  the  cottage  every  night.  They  had  seen 
me  riding  out,  according  to  my  custom,  and  they 
had  seen  me  ride  back  in  the  morning. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  had  taken  a  ride  on  horse 
back  every  night  and  every  morning,  but  never  in 
the  direction  of  the  cottage  while  she  was  there. 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  115 

"At  the  trial  there  were  people  who  testified  in 
my  behalf,  and  many  people  believed  in  my  inno 
cence.  Among  them1  was  a  black  servant,  who  said 
that  the  lady  had  had  a  secret  lover  before  she  ever 
saw  me,  and  the  girl's  stepmother  testified  that  the 
girl  had  acted  queerly  for  many  months;  that  she 
used  to  ride  to  the  postoffice  every  morning  and 
night,  because  she  feared  that  her  letters  would  fall 
into  the  hands  of  her  father. 

"In  spite  of  all  this,  my  guilt  was  made  to  appear 
perfectly  clear,  and  the  jury  brought  in  a  verdict 
of  murder  in  the  first  degree,  and,  as  I  told  you 
before,  I  was  sentenced  to  be  hanged. 

"The  Sheriff  had  had  a  horse  taken  a  few  nights 
before  when  they  searched  my  cottage,  and  when 
his  dogs  had  begun  to  bark  and  give  the  alarm,  he 
said  to  the  court,  he  had  fired  the  contents  of  his 
shotgun  at  a  man  who  was  galloping  away  from  his 
barn.  He  told  the  court  that  the  man  he  had  fired 
at  was  me.  In  the  morning  the  horse  was  found 
in  the  Sheriff's  field,  with  blood  on  its  side  and 
mane.  The  prosecuting  attorney  brought  out  at 
the  trial  that  the  horse  was  used  to  convey  the  body 
of  the  murdered  girl  to  the  place  which  I  had  secured 
as  a  grave  for  her. 

"No  motive  was  ever  given  for  my  having  killed 
her.  If  I  had  ruined  her,  there  would  even  then 


116  DROLL  STORIES 

have  been  no  motive,  as  the  girl  was  of  a  higher 
class  of  society  than  I,  and  as  her  father  had  lots  of 
money,  it  would  have  been  to  his  advantage  to  hush 
the  matter  up,  rather  than  to  try  to  make  trouble 
for  me. 

"That  was  the  argument  of  my  lawyer.  He 
showed  that  I  had  everything  to  gain  by  having  the 
girl  alive,  if  she  had  liked  me  well  enough  to  meet 
me  in  that  lonely  cottage,  and  I  had  everything  to 
lose  by  making  away  with  her." 

"A  darned  queer  thing.  I  remember  readin'  all 
about  it,"  interrupted  John  Hogan,  while  the  man 
from  Number  9  moistened  his  dry  lips  with  his 
tongue,  and  looked  over  his  shoulder  in  the  fright 
ened  way  he  had. 

"Well,"  said  Bill  Wiley,  "if  the  woman  was  alive, 
why  didn't  she  show  up  and  clear  you  ?  If  it  was  in 
the  papers,  she  should  have  seen  it." 

"It  was  in  the  papers,"  said  Hogan,  "and  a  picture 
of  him  was  in  the  New  York  World. 

"I  have  that  right  here,"  said  the  man,  touching 
his  breast. 

"How  did  you  get  out  of  Sing  Sing  after  twenty- 
five  years,  when  you  got  life?"  asked  Ikey,  as  he 
wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  forehead. 

"The  woman  came  back,  I  suppose,"  put  in 
Higgins. 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  117 

"Look  at  these,"  said  the  man  from  Number  9. 
The  four  men  bent  eagerly  forward,  each  with  his 
hand  outstretched  to  take  the  packet  of  papers 
which  the  man  held  in  his  trembling  hands.  "Look 
at  this  postmark— M 885,  Panama.'" 

John  Hogan  gently  took  the  yellow  letter  and 
unfolded  it,  while  the  other  men  bent  forward,  their 
eyes  fairly  bulging  from  their  sockets.  It  read: 
'My  Dear  Mr.  Prayer:  Please  forgive  us  for  the 
condition  in  which  you  found  your  house.  My  hus 
band  came  for  me  on  the  night  of  the  21st  of  Sep 
tember,  and  he  stopped  to  take  a  horse  for  me  to 
ride  from  the  Sheriff's  place.  The  Sheriff  shot  at 
him,  and  he  was  wounded  in  the  arm — a  very  bad 
scratch.  Did  you  think  that  some  one  had  been 
killed?  The  wound  bled  a  great  deal,  but  I  bound 
it  up  so  well  that  he  was  all  right  until  he  could 
see  a  doctor  in  New  York  City.  He  says  I  would 
make  a  good  surgeon.  We  left  New  York  on  the 
following  Monday  and  came  on  one  of  the  Panama 
Railroad  steamers  to  Panama.  Our  destination  is 
Chile.  Please  accept  this  trifle  from  my  husband 
and  me.' 

"This  is  it,"  said  the  man,  with  a  harsh  laugh, 
and  he  drew  from  the  faded  envelope  a  slip  of 
paper. 

"A  check  for  one  thousand  dollars,"  said  the  four 


H8  DROLL  STORIES 

listeners  in  turn,  and  as  each  man  looked  at  the 
check  the  man  from  Number  9  gave  another  harsh 
laugh. 

"This  is  the  key  to  the  cottage,"  said  he,  drawing 
from  the  envelope  a  rusty  Yale  lock  latchkey.  Then 
John  Hogan  read  on:  "I  trust  to  you  to  keep  my 
whereabouts  a  secret.  I  am  never  coming  back  to 
New  York  again.  Let  us  hear  from  you.  We  ex 
pect  to  live  at  No.  12  Sacramento  Street,  Valpa 
raiso,  Chile. 

"I  know  my  people  will  make  a  search  for  me, 
but  I  feel  sure  that  you  will  keep  silent  about  me. 
I  am  very  happy.  Your  grateful  friend,  Ada  Ber- 
mugues." 

John  Hogan  threw  the  letter  to  Ikey  and  looked 
into  space  for  some  time,  while  the  man  from  Num 
ber  9  drew  a  table  toward  him  and  placed  upon  it 
some  other  papers  which  he  took  from  the  inside 
pocket  of  his  coat.  The  four  men  bent  forward  and 
watched  him  as,  one  by  one,  he  unfolded  the  various 
letters  and  papers  which  were  in  some  way  con 
nected  with  the  story  of  his  life.  One  was  a  pre 
tentious-looking  document  with  two  red  seals.  It 
was  his  acquittal  from  the  Governor  of  New  York 
for  the  crime  he  had  never  committed,  and  was 
dated  May  1st,  1910.  Another  was  the  petition 
which  Ada  Bermugues  had  presented  to  the  Gov- 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  119 

ernor  in  behalf  of  the  man  who  had  been  impris 
oned  for  her  supposed  murder.  There  was  not  a 
v/ord  spoken  while  the  papers  were  being  perused. 
One  would  read  a  letter  or  newspaper  clipping,  and 
in  silence  hand  it  to  another,  until  all  were  read  and 
reread.  The  men  made  a  weird  picture  in  the  soft 
moonlight,  as  they  sat,  with  anxious,  set  faces. 
"You  see,"  the  man  from  Number  9  continued,  when 
the  last  paper  was  read  and  folded  by  Higgins,  from 
whose  forehead  great  beads  of  perspiration  dropped, 
"the  woman  came  back  after  a  few  years  and  lived 
in  New  York  City.  She  didn't  know  that  I  had  ever 
been  put  in  jail,  because  she  never  went  about  any 
one  she  had  ever  known  before.  About  three 
months  ago  her  father  died,  and  she  read  of  his 
death  in  the  newspapers.  Then  she  went  to  their 
family  lawyer  and  made  herself  known  to  him,  and 
when  he  told  her  about  me  she  went  straight  to  the 
Governor  and  had  the  case  opened,  and,  after  a  lot 
of  red  tape,  I  was  released.  I  found  that  letter 
which  she  wrote  me  from  Panama  twenty-five  years 
ago  in  the  pocket  of  the  rain  coat  that  I  wore  just 
before  the  sheriff  arrested  me.  As  I  look  back  now, 
I  remember  that  these  three  letters  were  handed  to 
me  just  before  the  Sheriff  put  his  hand  on  my  shoul 
der  to  tell  me  I  was  under  arrest." 
The  man  from  Number  9  picked  up  the  three  let- 


120  DROLL  STORIES 

ters  indicated.  "One,"  he  went  on,  "is,  you  will 
see,  a  bill  from  a  horseshoer;  one  is  from  a  tailor, 
and  the  other  from  her.  I  ^eft  the  raincoat  in  my 
office  that  morning  and  forgot  all  about  the  letters. 
When  I  was  let  out  of  Sing  Sing  a  cousin  of  mine 
took  me  to  his  home  in  my  old  home  town.  He 
told  me  that  he  had  all  the  things  that  were  in  the 
office  at  the  time  of  my  arrest,  and  among  them  was 
the  raincoat,  with  the  letters  in  the  pocket  that  might 
have  gained  me  my  freedom.  My  cousin  had  never 
looked  in  the  pockets,  and,  therefore,  didn't  know 
that  they  were  there." 

"My  God!"  said  John  Hogan;  "and  the  Bible 
says  that  not  even  a  sparrow  shall  fall  to  the  ground 
without  His  knowledge."  "Bible,  your  foot!'' 
grunted  Ikey.  "If  God  knows  everything,  why 
didn't  he  make  this  man  think  about  the  three 
letters  in  the  pocket  of  the  rain  coat?  Why 
didn't  He  put  it  into  the  Sheriff's  mind  to  hunt  for 
evidence  the  way  they  do  in  the  story-books?  He 
never  did  anything  to  God  that  most  other  men 
ain't  doing  every  day.  He  tried  to  do  a  good  act. 
There  was  a  girl  in  some  trouble,  and  he  helped  her 
out  by  giving  her  the  key  of  his  house.  It  helped 
her,  because  she  got  away  from  her  folks.  They 
must  have  been  cussed  mean,  like  mine  were  when 
I  got  away  from  them.  God  can't  give  back  to  this 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  121 

man  his  youth  and  health.  He  can't  give  him  the 
sons  and  daughters  that  he  might  have  had  if  he  had 
been  left  his  freedom.  He  can't  give  him  anything 
now  that  will  compensate  for  the  twenty-five  years 
in  Sing  Sing."  "But  there's  another  life,"  said  the 
man  from  Number  9  with  awful  calmness.  "I  have 
had  visions  of  it,  and  have  prayed  to  God  on  my 
bare  knees,  and  asked  Him  to  bring  the  girl  back, 
and  He  brought  her,  didn't  He?"  "Yes,"  said  John 
Hogan,  "He  did  after  twenty-five  years."  "I  prayed 
that  she'd  come  back  and  tell  me  that  she  regretted 
that  she  hadn't  loved  me,  and  she  did."  "And  she 
just  said  that  because  she  thought  it  would  make 
you  feel  good.  She  was  sorry  for  you.  Women 
can  feel  sorry  for  their  worst  enemies  if  they  are 
in  trouble,"  said  Ikey,  cynically.  "1  prayed  to  God 
for  peace,  and  He  gave  me  peace;  and  I  got  used 
to  Sing  Sing,  and  would  have  been  content  to  live 
there  the  rest  of  my  life,  if  the  girl  hadn't  come 
back,"  went  on  the  man  from  Number  9. 

"God  can't  do  more  for  a  man  than  give  him 
contentment,  and  I  had  that  for  many  years.  I  had 
no  desires  like  I  used  to  have  when  I  was  a  young 
man.  I  had  nothing  to  lose.  There  was  nothing 
around  me  that  I  would  want  to  covet.  I  envied 
no  human  being,  and  no  one  envied  me.  Why,  I 
used  to  lie  in  my  narrow  cell  at  night  and  wonder 


122  DROLL  STORIES 

to  myself  why  I  was  ever  foolish  enough  to  covet 
the  silly  things  that  I  used  to  covet  before  I  went 
to  jail,  and  gradually  everything  that  was  most 
dear  to  me  became  only  a  memory,  and  the  simple 
things  of  my  prison  life  became  dear  to  me.  I  was 
a  sort  of  leader  among  the  prisoners,  and  the  worst 
ones  among  them  believed  that  I  was  innocent." 
"That  was  the  potency  of  right  and  truth,"  said 
Higgins,  interrupting  him  for  the  first  time. 

"Schopenhauer  says  that  truth  is  the  only  God 
there  is,  and  that's  all  I  believe  in,"  said  Ikey. 

"After  what  we  guys  heard  to-night,"  said  John 
Hogan,  "I'm  beginning  to  think  that  old  Schuppy 
was  more  of  a  prophet  than  we  give  him  credit  for." 
"You  have  invited  me  over  here  from  Number  9," 
said  the  man,  "and  I  must  ask  you  men  not  to  say 
things  that  might  have  a  tendency  to  kill  my  faith, 
because  that's  all  I  have  left."  "You  have  more 
than  we  have,"  said  Higgins,  "and  we  are  going  to 
try  to  strengthen  your  faith,  rather  than  weaken  it." 

"We'll  try  to,"  said  Ikey.  "Better  go  to  bed 
now,"  said  John  Hogan;  "you  look  tired.  Ikey's 
room  is  the  coolest  in  the  house.  Show  him  his 
bed."  "Good  night.  Thank  you  for  your  kindness, 
men,"  said  the  man  from  Number  9,  as  he  followed 
Ikey  to  his  room.  "Good  night,"  said  Higgins  and 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  123 

Hogan.    "Poor  devil!"  said  Bill  Wiley,  as  the  man 
disappeared  into  Ikey's  room. 

"He's  got  the  right  dope  on  religion,"  said  John 
Hogan,  "and  is  happy  in  it."  "He  bears  no  ill- 
feeling  for  the  woman  who  ruined  his  life,"  said 
Higgins.  "Why  pity  him  ?  He's  happy  because  he 
believes  in  a  living  God."  "That  check  he's  got 
must  be  worth  good  money  by  now,"  said  Ikey,  re 
turning.  "Why  don't  the  darn  fool  cash  it  in?" 


THE  CANAL  ZONE  ARCHITECT'S  WEDDING 


I 


N  Germany,  before  the  days  of  the 
American  occupation  at  Panama,  there 
lived  with  her  mother  a  beautiful, 
golden-haired,  blue-eyed  girl  named 
Hulda  Schneider.  The  Schneiders 
were  very  poor,  but  they  had  held 
their  own,  for  they  had  been  fighters. 
But  of  what  use  are  fighters  there  nowadays,  ex 
cept  as  bodyguards  to  the  Kaiser's  numerous  off 
spring?  Hulda  had  tastes  inherent  in  such  people, 
and,  having  no  means  of  gratifying  them,  she  chafed 
in  her  environment.  "I'll  tell  you  what  to  do,"  said 
a  sophisticated  girl  friend,  who  had  lived  for  a  time 
at  Hoboken,  N.  J.  "Put  an  ad  in  a  New  York  City 
newspaper,  saying  that  you  are  young  and  pretty 
and  just  dying  to  make  some  good  American 
happy." 

"Shall  I  get  a  millionaire,  do  you  think?"  asked 
the  innocent  Hulda. 

"You  may,"  said  her  adviser.    "If  you  don't,  you 
may  get  a  Jew,  and  that's  almost  the  same  thing." 
"But  I  don't  want  a  Jew,"  said  Hulda.    "I  want 
an  American  who  is  rich,  young  and  handsome. 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  125 

Accordingly,  an  advertisement  was  sent  to  a  New 
York  Sunday  paper  announcing  that  a  good-looking 
girl  in  Germany  was  pining  to  marry  a  rich  Ameri 
can.  Meanwhile,  Blue-eyed,  golden-haired  Hulda 
settled  down  to  await  a  reply. 

Now  we  must  go  back  about  seven  hundred  years, 
to  the  time  when  the  Danes  invaded  Ireland.  There 
was  one  Dane  in  particular,  named  Vickenstadt,  who 
married  a  descendant  of  Brian  Bom.  It  so  hap 
pened  that  a  descendant  of  this  Dane  and  the  great 
Brian  read  Hulda's  advertisement  and  decided  to 
answer  it.  He  was  an  ambitious  man,  of  temperate 
habits  and  aesthetic  tastes.  He  studied  hard,  for  he 
was  wont  to  say,  "If  there's  one  thing  in  the  world 
that  I  like  better  than  another,  it  is  intelligence." 
He  was  a  draftsman  by  profession,  but  he  called 
himself  "architect  of  the  Canal  Zone."  To  use  his 
own  words,  he  was  "well  fixed,"  and  what  he  most 
desired  was  a  golden-haired,  blue-eyed,  slender 
young  girl  to  share  his  fortune  and  his  ancient  name. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  his  name  had  undergone  some 
radical  changes  during  the  intervening  years,  and 
was  now  written  Brian  McVickins.  His  associates 
called  him  "Mickey"  Vickens  for  short,  and  by  this 
cognomen  he  was  generally  known.  He  was  an 
American  citizen,  but  first  saw  the  light  of  day  in 


126  DROLL  STORIES 

a  little  town  in  County  Clare  fifty  years  before  the 
incidents  in  this  story  occurred. 

Tis  a  far  cry  from  Hulda's  home  town  on  the 
Rhine  to  Ancon,  C.  Z.,  but  the  finger  of  fate  is  ever 
pointing  this  way  and  that,  else  "Mickey"  Vickins 
would  never  have  seen  her  advertisement  on  that 
unlucky  Sunday  morning.  "Be  jabers,"  said  he, 
"here's  the  last  thing  I  want  now.  I'll  answer  this 
ad  this  very  day,  or  my  name  is  not  Brian  Boru 
Vickingstadt.  If  the  others  object  to  me  Irish  accint, 
divil  a  bit  the  difference  'ill  this  one  know,  and  by 
the  toime  she  gets  to  know  the  ropes  she'll  be  so 
attached  to  me  that  she'll  hate  to  leave  me.  The 
G'erman  wimmin  do  be  that  way.  I'll  write  under 
me  right  and  proper  name,  an'  shure  they'll  know 
I'm  Danish  anyway."  So  he  sat  down  and  wrote 
that  he  was  of  Danish  descent,  an  architect,  an 
American,  well  fixed  financially,  and  thirty-four 
years  of  age. 

"I'd  better  tell  her  what  sort  of  a  complected  man 
I  am  whilst  I'm  about  it,"  so  he  wrote,  "dark-com 
plected,  with  blue  eyes  an'  fair  skin."  "Me  hair  is 
turnin'  fast,"  said  he  to  himself,  as  he  gazed  at 
his  reflection  in  the  looking-glass,  "but,"  he  added, 
"if  she  objects,  a  bit  of  dye  will  fix  that  all  right." 
He  told  her  that  it  would  be  six  months  before  he 
would  be  able  to  procure  "married  quarters,"  and  he 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  127 

advised  her  to  go  to  school  where  English  was  being 
taught  so  that  she  might  be  able  to  converse  with 
him  should  she  decide  to  accept  him  as  her  future 
husband.  "An'  bedad!  I  haven't  been  with  the 
Jews  in  Chicago  for  nothing,"  said  the  scheming 
wooer,  "an'  me  plan  ought  to  be  to  ask  her  to  give 
me  the  address  of  the  schoolmaster,  an'  I'll  send  the 
old  blaguard  the  money  in  checks.  Thin  I'll  have 
a  hold  upon  the  creature  in  case  she  has  some  young 
lads  to  meet  her.  Shure  a  man  can  never  be  after 
thinkin'  what  a  young  heifer  might  be  havin'  in  her 
mind."  At  length  the  letter  was  finished  and  was 
duly  dispatched  to  the  waiting  Hulda.  There  was  a 
clipping  enclosed  which  read  that  Brian  Bom  Vick- 
ingstadt  had  lectured  to  a  large  audience  on  the 
Panama  Canal  at  Hoboken,  N.  J.  There  was  a 
postscript  added,  to  the  effect  that  the  writer  wished 
to  communicate  with  the  mother  of  the  fair  Hulda. 
That  he  had  persuasive  powers  may  be  inferred 
from  the  fact  that  Hulda's  mother  answered  the 
letter  as  soon  as  it  was  received.  The  schoolmaster 
wrote  that  Hulda  could  begin  her  studies  at  once, 
and  that  great  pains  would  be  taken  to  fit  her  to 
become  the  wife  of  so  prominent  a  person  as  the 
"architect  of  the  Canal  Zone."  There  was  a  picture 
of  the  girl  included. 
"I  like  the  man  already,"  said  Hulda's  mother. 


128  DROLL  STORIES 

"He  is  too  old,"  said  Hulda.  "Just  think,  thirty- 
four,  while  I  am  only  twenty."  "It  is  the  right  age, 
just,"  said  the  mother.  "The  husband  should  have 
the  age  already  when  the  wife  is  that  young  and 
foolish  like  you  are."  Hulda,  however,  had  sent 
her  picture  and  a  long  letter  to  another  applicant. 
He  wrote  that  he  was  a  farmer,  and  lived  near  Mont- 
clair,  N.  J. ;  that  he  had  one  thousand  dollars  saved, 
was  twenty-six  years  old,  sober,  and  a  church  mem 
ber. 

After  some  weeks  the  schoolmaster  received 
twenty-five  dollars  from  the  "architect  of  the  Canal 
Zone"  for  Hulda's  instruction,  and  Hulda's  mother 
received  a  sum  of  money,  all  of  which  was  duly 
acknowledged  in  the  most  legal  manner  on  legal- 
looking  paper.  Now  the  Vickingstadt  exulted  in 
having  won  the  prize.  He  took  the  girl's  picture 
and  visited  the  places  where  "the  boys"  were  in  the 
habit  of  assembling.  "What  do  ye  think  of  that  for 
a  colleen?"  asked  he  of  one  and  all.  "By  Jove,  she 
is  a  perfect  Juno,"  said  one.  "Say!  she's  all  right; 
a  good-looker,  and  some  style,"  spoke  up  another. 
"Where  did  you  pick  it  up?"  queried  a  third.  "That 
picture  does  not  belong  to  none  of  your  relatives," 
another  boldly  asserted,  "she's  too  refined-lookin'." 
"Divil  a  bit,"  acknowledged  the  "architect;"  she's 
the  gurrl  I'm  goin'  to  marry  whin  I  go  on  me  vaca- 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  129 

tion  in  September.  Shure,  that's  why  I  come  across 
the  Isthmus.  I'm  gittin'  a  house  here  to  bring  me 
bride  to."  "How  could  an  old  mug  like  you  get  a 
good-looker  like  that  to  marry  you?  'Mickey 
Vickins'  is  a  romancer,"  declared  one  of  the  high 
brows.  "That  must  be  the  picture  of  some  young 
lady  in  whose  family  he  worked  when  he  first  came 
from  Ireland,"  spoke  up  another  highbrow.  And 
so  the  matter  furnished  food  for  discussion  for  some 
time.  The  "architect"  was  now  living  at  Cristobal, 
where  he  had  an  extensive  acquaintance  among  "the 
boys."  He  knew  every  one  of  the  drydock  gang  by 
name,  and  to  each  one  in  turn  he  showed  the  picture 
of  the  fair  Hulda.  The  members  of  the  drydock 
gang  became  greatly  interested  in  the  Vickingstadt's 
wooing,  and  discussed  the  affair  among  themselves 
in  the  following  manner:  'Mickey  Vickins'  is  goin' 
to  be  married,  all  right."  "Shure  thing;  got  his 
name  in  for  married  quarters!  An'  say,  she  shure 
is  a  peach."  "Yes,  he'll  bring  some  old  biddy  down 
with  him  from  New  York.  No  one  else  would 
marry  an  old  mutt  like  him."  "He  stole  that  picture 
from  one  of  them  penpushers  that  he  used  to  room 
with  over  at  Ancon,"  etc.,  etc. 

Meanwhile  the  "architect"  winked  foxily  and 
tucked  away  the  letters  from  Hulda's  mother  and 
the  schoolmaster  with  his  choicest  treasures,  which. 


130  DROLL  STORIES 

consisted  of  his  discharge  from  the  United  States 
Army  and  his  correspondence  school  diploma.  Un 
known  to  her  mother,  Hulda  received  money  from 
two  other  men,  which  she  acknowledged  in  the  fol 
lowing  manner: 

"I  received  your  letter  and  its  contents.  I  long 
to  see  you.  I  know  I  shall  love  you,  and  I  hope 
to  make  you  a  good  wife.  Good  night,  sweet 
heart." 

She  had  a  dream  of  her  landing  at  New  York 
that  was  very  rosy.  She  decided  to  have  her  three 
lovers  meet  her  at  the  dock;  she  could  then  pick 
out  the  one  she  liked  best,  and  say  "Guten  nacht" 
to  the  others.  She  did  not  know,  poor  girl,  with 
what  she  would  have  to  contend  on  arriving  in  the 
"land  of  the  free  and  home  of  the  brave."  Neither 
did  two  of  the  applicants  for  her  hand.  The  Vick- 
ingstadt  knew,  however,  from  past  experience,  and 
he  said  to  himself:  "I'm  goin'  about  it  in  the  right 
way,  for  many's  the  young  heifer  from  the  ould 
dart  I've  helped  to  get  out  of  the  pin  on  Ellis 
Island," 


THE  CANAL  ZONE  ARCHITECT'S  WEDDING. 


(PAET  II.) 

HEN  the  big  liner  docked  which 
brought  Hulda  from  the  port  of 
Hamburg  one  might  have  seen 
three  anxious-looking  men  standing 
on  the  pier.  Hulda  had  been  the 
pet  of  the  ship  during  the  trip.  She 
booked  a  passage  second  class,  but, 
because  of  her  good  looks  and 
varied  accomplishments,  she  was  invited  to  the 
saloon  to  play  and  sing.  There  was  a  halo  of 
romance  about  her,  as  she  was  on  her  way  to  New 
York  to  become  a  bride,  and  it  was  said  that  a  young 
scion  of  a  wealthy  family  or  board  had  fallen  des 
perately  in  love  with  her — a  circumstance  which 
greatly  enhanced  her  importance  in  the  minds  of 
the  other  passengers. 

Hulda  appeared  on  the  dock  a  few  minutes  after 
the  big  steamer  had  tied  up,  with  two  trunks  filled 
to  overflowing  with  finery  and  $8  in  her  pocket- 
book.  Like  the  majority  of  the  fair  sex,  Hulda, 
when  questioned  by  the  immigration  inspector, 


132  DROLL  STORIES 

fibbed  about  her  age,  saying  she  was  but  1 7,  instead 
of  20.  This  at  once  led  to  complications,  for,  when 
two  of  her  lovers  lined  up  to  claim  her,  each  was 
confronted  with  a  grave  problem.  Neither  of  them 
knew  how  to  get  a  17-year-old  girl  past  the  im 
migration  authorities.  The  farmer  from  New  Jersey 
was  first  to  assert  his  claim  to  the  fair  Hulda,  but 
he  did  not  come  prepared  to  have  the  knot  tied;  he 
brought  no  aged  mother  or  aunt,  so  his  claim  was 
disregarded.  He  shook  his  head  sadly  and  said, 
"Well,  here's  where  I'm  out  $284,  but  perhaps  'tis 
just  as  well,  for  I  think  she  is  a  little  too  fine  for  a 
farm  in  Jersey,  anyhow." 

The  next  applicant,  a  Southern  gentleman  from 
Savannah,  now  stepped  forward.  He  showed  many 
letters  he  had  received  from  Hulda  and  displayed  an 
earnestness,  too,  which  would  have  helped  him  any 
where  in  the  world  except  on  that  pier.  It  was  evi 
dent  that  Hulda  admired  him  greatly,  and  when  he 
told  the  interpreter  he  had  property  which  had  been 
valued  for  taxes  at  $60,000  it  was  with  difficulty 
that  the  girl  could  keep  herself  from  running  into 
his  arms.  But  he  was  obliged  to  leave  without  her, 
and  Ellis  Island  stared  her  in  the  face. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  the  "architect  of  the 
Canal  Zone"  came  forward  to  claim  her.  "I  think 
this  young  lady  belongs  to  me,"  he  told  the  im- 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  133 

migration  inspector,  with  a  thin  little  smile.  "I  have 
been  taking  an  interest  in  her  for  several  months, 
and  I've  her  mother's  consent  to  marry  her."  The 
papers  were  carefully  examined,  and  the  interpreter 
told  Hulda  that  this  was  the  man  who  had  the  proper 
claim  upon  her.  "According  to  your  mother's 
letters,"  he  said,  "he  is  your  guardian,  and  if  you 
do  not  marry  him  he  has  the  right  to  send  you  back 
to  Germany." 

"Gott  in  Himmel!  I  must  go  back  now?"  said 
poor  Hulda,  bursting  into  tears. 

"The  neighbors  would  say  that  the  man  in  New 
York  didn't  like  you  and  turned  you  down,"  said 
the  wily  interpreter,  "so  if  I  were  you  I'd  stay  and 
marry  this  nice,  clean-looking  old  man.  He  has  a 
good  position  down  where  the  Americans  are  digging 
the  canal,  and  I  bet  you  he  has  plenty  of  money. 
Get  some  of  it  away  from  him,  and  in  a  few  weeks, 
if  you  want  to,  you  can  get  a  divorce.  Over  here 
in  America,  if  a  man  and  his  wife  can't  agree,  they 
go  to  a  judge  and  get  a  divorce." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  said  Hulda,  her  face 
brightening,  "I'll  go  up  to  the  big  city  of  New  York 
with  him  and  will  then  run  away." 

"Oh,  but  you  will  have  to  marry  him  right  here 
in  the  presence  of  these  men,  and  I  shall  have  to  stay 
and  interpret  the  ceremony." 


134  DHOLL  STORIES 

During  this  conversation  the  "architect"  stood 
apart,  quietly  awaiting  the  verdict.  There  were 
many  interested  spectators,  who  gazed  admiringly 
upon  the  graceful  girl  and  wondered  what  it  was  all 
about. 

Hulda  wept  copiously,  and,  the  heart  of  the  Vick- 
ingstadt  being  touched,  he  made  an  attempt  to  con 
sole  her,  saying,  "Darling  thrish,  I'll  make  you 
happy.  I'll  give  you  jewels  and  laces  galore.  What 
makes  you  take  on  so?" 

"Go  away,  you  old  devil,"  said  Hulda.  "If  you 
attempt  to  kiss  me  I'll  jump  into  the  water." 

"The  Lord  be  praised  and  glorified,"  ejaculated 
the  Vickingstadt,  taken  all  aback.  "Is  that  the  En 
glish  that  was  taught  you  by  the  blaguard  school 
master,  after  me  payin'  me  good  money  for  you?" 

Hulda,  red  in  the  face,  showed  plainly  that  the 
fighting  blood  of  the  Schneiders  was  up.  The  in 
terpreter  interposed  and  said  to  Hulda,  "You  must 
smile  and  look  pleased,  or  you  will  be  sent  back, 
The  minister  is  waiting,  and  you  will  have  to  look 
as  if  you  were  tickled  to  death  over  it." 

Thereupon  he  took  Hulda  by  the  arm  and  led  her 
to  where  the  "architect"  stood  with  the  Lutheran 
clergyman. 

"Shall  I  have  to  say  to  him  1  love  him?"  queried 
Hulda  of  the  interpreter. 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  135 

"You  sure  will,"  was  the  rejoinder. 

"I  can't,"  said  Hulda,  "it  will  be  a  lie;  I  hate  him 
already,"  she  added  desperately. 

In  the  end,  however,  they  were  married,  and  in 
accordance  with  the  rites  of  the  Lutheran  Church, 
to  which  Hulda  belonged. 

It  will  have  been  noticed  that  she  did  not  like  to 
swear  to  a  lie,  which  was  a  point  in  her  favor.  It 
will  also  be  seen  that  the  holy  institution  of  matri 
mony  was  being  used  for  fraudulent  purposes.  If 
it  had  been  the  United  States  mail  that  had  been 
used  in  a  like  manner  Hulda,  the  "architect,"  the 
interpreter  and  all  concerned  would  have  been  found 
guilty  of  a  misdemeanor,  and  the  immigration 
authorities  would  have  had  to  account  for  com 
pounding  a  felony.  Both  of  the  contracting  parties 
swore  to  unseeming  lies,  and  the  Lord's  anointed 
was  in  attendance  to  see  that  no  word  was  left  out 
or  substituted  to  make  the  lies  less  patent.  The 
bridegroom  swore  to  endow  Hulda  with  all  his 
worldly  goods,  when,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  only 
intended  to  give  her  a  few  dollars  now  and  then. 
The  bride  swore,  between  sobs,  that  she  would  love, 
honor  and  obey  her  husband  until  death  should 
them  part,  notwithstanding  that  the  uppermost 
thought  in  her  mind  was  to  run  away  from  him  as 
soon  as  she  should  enter  the  city.  Hulda's  feelings 


136  DROLL  STORIES 

can  better  be  imagined  than  described  when  the  final 
words  were  said.  She  was  married  according  to  the 
laws  of  the  universe  and  to  the  satisfaction  of  the 
immigration  authorities. 

It  is  certain  that  fate  plays  strange  pranks  with 
some  people,  for,  no  sooner  than  Hulda  and  the 
Vickingstadt  had  been  pronounced  man  and  wife, 
than  there  appeared  on  the  scene  the  man  from 
Savannah,  accompanied  by  two  prominent  New 
Yorkers  and  the  German  Consul. 

"Too  late,"  said  a  bystander. 

"That's  a  damn  shame,"  said  a  sailor,  who  had 
witnessed  the  whole  tragedy. 

Hulda  was  so  overwhelmed  by  the  turn  of  events 
that  when  she  saw  her  true  beloved  return  she  ran 
to  him,  clasped  him  about  the  neck  and  then  fainted. 
The  young  man  naturally  looked  embarrassed,  but 
he,  with  others,  assisted  her  to  regain  consciousness. 
The  bridegroom  adopted  a  martyr-like  pose,  and 
when  the  girl  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  sit  in  a 
chair  he  addressed  the  interpreter  as  follows: 

"Tell  that  crazy  gurl  that  it  is  a  very  ondutiful 
wife  she  is  after  makin'  herself.  Tell  her  that  from 
now  until  the  ind  of  me  life  she  must  cut  all  feelin's 
of  love  from  her  heart  for  that  man  or  any  other 
man.  Tell  her  that  I  have  houses  in  three  cities  and 
property  in  Panama.  Tell  her  that  my  income  is 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  137 

$3,000  gold  a  year,  besides  what  I  make  by  me 
lectures.  Tell  her  that  I  neither  drink,  smoke  nor 
chew.  An',  thin,  in  the  name  of  Hivin!  what  more 
does  she  want?  Tell  her  I'll  take  her  to  Colon  to 
morrow,  there  be  a  ship  sailin'." 

This  was  related  to  the  bewildered  girl,  and  she 
was  requested  to  go  with  her  husband. 

"Be  jabbers,  'tis  a  policeman  that  I'll  be  after 
gittin'  to  watch  her  to-night,"  he  said  to  himself  as 
he  half  led,  half  pulled  her  to  a  coach.  "If  I  don't, 
'tis  elope  she  will  with  that  blaguard  Southern 
gintleman.  An',  after  me  spindin'  so  much  money 
upon  her,  an'  'tis  ashamed  I'd  be  to  show  me  face 
on  the  Zone  if  I  didn't  take  the  colleen  back  with 
me." 

After  much  discussion  and  interpreting,  Hulda 
was  prevailed  upon  to  accompany  her  husband  to  a 
hotel.  Here  people  were  paid  to  watch  her,  while 
the  bridegroom  went  to  dispatch  a  telegram  to  the 
steamship  agency,  which  read :  "reserve  bridal  soute 
on  ship  sailing  to-morrow  for  Colon." 

When  Hulda  was  taken  on  board  the  next  day 
she  had  been  outwardly  appeased  by  a  present  from 
her  husband  of  a  diamond  ring  and  $100  in  bright 
gold  pieces,  but  a  fire  of  hatred,  fed  by  a  vanquished 
purpose,  smoldered  in  her  breast. 


THE  CANAL  ZONE  ARCHITECT'S  WEDDING. 


(PART  III.) 

T  was  a  Sunday  afternoon  when  the 
ship  on  which  this  ill-assorted  pair 
took  passage  reached  its  dock  at  Cris 
tobal.  "The  boys"  were  out  in  force 
to  see  what  "Mickey"  Vickins'  bride 
looked  like.  There  was  a  murmur 
of  suppressed  admiration  when  she 
walked  down  the  ladder,  and  each  took  a  long 
breath  when  he  saw  the  "architect"  walking  be 
hind  the  fair  girl  with  every  appearance  of  owner 
ship.  "The  Vickingstadt  has  put  it  all  over  us," 
said  one  man,  laughing.  "She  certainly  is  a  beau 
tiful  girl,"  exclaimed  another.  'Mickey  Vickins 
never  told  the  truth  before,  but  he  told  it  this  time," 
said  one  of  the  dry-dock  gang,  "so  I  am  out  $25, 
for  I  bet  a  feller  last  night  that  'Mickey'  'ud  bring 
back  a  kitchen  mechanic.  The  joke  is  on  me,  all 
right." 

And  then  "the  boys,"  with  one  voice,  shouted, 
"What's  the  matter  with  'Mickey'  Vickins?  He's 
all  right!" 


Of  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  130 

They  gave  three  hearty  cheers  for  "Mickey" 
Vickins  and  his  bride,  and  then  something  hap 
pened.  The  much-admired  Hulda,  not  understand 
ing  what  it  was  all  about,  and  in  her  haste  to  get 
ashore,  did  not  notice  where  she  was  going,  and  ran 
into  the  arms  of  a  man  from  her  own  country,  who, 
upon  looking  at  her  closely,  embraced  her  and  ten 
derly  kissed  her. 

"God  be  praised  and  glorified!  What  am  I  up 
against  now?"  exclaimed  the  astounded  and  dis 
gusted  Vickingstadt.  The  man  proved  to  be  Hulda's 
brother-in-law,  who,  when  her  sister  had  died,  left 
Germany  for  parts  unknown. 

"Who  is  that  old  man?"  he  asked  fiercely,  point 
ing  to  the  unfortunate  "architect."  Hulda  talked 
at  some  length  in  her  own  tongue,  wrung  her  hands, 
cried  and  begged  her  brother-in-law  to  take  her  away 
from  her  husband. 

"Come,  darlint,"  said  the  unsuspecting  "Mickey" 
Vickins,  "come  along.  Shure,  I 'mi  not  understand 
ing  what  you  do  be  sayin'  to  your  Dutch  friend, 
but  I  won't  have  the  dry-dock  gang  hear  it,  or  they'll 
harrish  the  life  out  of  me,  the  blaguards." 

"Go  away,  you  old  devil!"  said  Hulda,  in  very 
good  English,  which  was  readily  understood  by  the 
crowd. 

"Praises  be,  'tis  call  the  polis  I'll  be  after  doin' 


140  DROLL  STORIES 

if  you  don't  come  with  me  to  our  beautiful  home 
that's  all  ready  for  us." 

"You  scoundrel,  you  kidnapped  her  from  her  own 
lover  on  the  dock  in  New  York  City,"  shouted  the 
brother-in-law. 

"I  did  not,"  said  the  husband. 

"You  did,"  said  Hulda. 

At  this  the  little  man  became  angry  and  tried  to 
pull  her  away  from  her  countryman.  In  the  mean 
time,  the  crowd  having  closed  in  about  the  angry 
trio,  shouted,  "Go  to  it,  'Mickey,' "  when  several 
policemen  interfered. 

"  'Mickey'  kidnapped  her,  all  right,"  said  one  of 
his  friends,  laughing. 

"Who'd  ever  thought  it?"  said  another. 

"He'll  have  to  go  to  jail  for  it,  poor  devil,"  smil 
ingly  spoke  a  third. 

Meanwhile,  the  "architect"  was  busy  showing  his 
marriage  certificate  to  a  policeman,  who,  upon  ex 
amining  it,  ordered  Hulda  to  go  home  with  her  hus 
band,  at  the  same  time  telling  the  brother-in-law  to 
go  about  his  business  or  he  would  arrest  him.  Then 
the  Vickingstadt  seized  the  arm  of  the  sulky  Hulda 
and,  amid  cheers  of  the  crowd,  walked  off  the  dock 
in  triumph.  *  *  * 

One  Sunday  morning  about  three  months  after 
her  arrival  Hulda  ordered  her  servant  to  prepare 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  141 

sauerkraut  for  dinner.  "Mickey"  Vickins  ordered 
corned  beef  and  cabbage,  and  threw  the  sauerkraut 
out  with  his  own  hands.  After  Hulda  had  given  the 
order  she  went  for  a  walk,  and  came  back  with  an 
appetite  for  the  good  old  German  dish,  to  find  the 
Irish  substitute  awaiting  her.  She  flew  into  a  rage 
at  once,  and,  unknown  to  the  Vickingstadt,  sent  for 
her  brother-in-law.  When  he  arrived  she  poured 
the  whole  terrible  tale  of  woe  into  his  willing  ear. 
After  the  "architect"  had  finished  his  nice  boiled 
dinner  he  tiptoed  to  his  wife's  bedroom  and  found 
it  deserted.  "The  Lord  be  praised,"  he  said  to  him 
self,  "where  did  the  colleen  go  to?" 

A  small  window  opened  from  Hulda's  room  on  to 
the  back  veranda,  and  he  was  just  in  time  to  wit 
ness  the  condolences  of  the  brother-in-law,  along 
with  certain  other  little  tendernesses  which  made 
him  feel  sick  at  heart.  As  this  is  not  a  novel,  I  must 
refrain  from  summing  up  his  feelings,  and  shall 
confine  myself  to  facts.  I  happened  to  look  through 
my  window  just  as  he  tiptoed  from  his  front  door, 
after  having  looked  at  his  wife  conversing  with  her 
brother-in-law.  He  looked  as  if  he  wished  me  to 
speak,  and  I  bade  him  a  "good  morning." 

"I  am  your  neighbor  beyant,  ma'am,"  said  he, 
coming  close  to  the  window  and  speaking  in  a 
whisper.  "I  want  for  you  to  come  with  me  an'  see. 


142  DROLL  STORIES 

a  sight  that'll  freeze  the  blood  in  your  veins,  if 
you're  an  honest  woman,  which  I  think  ye  are." 

Without  saying  a  word  I  opened  the  door  and 
stepped  lightly  upon  the  sidewalk  beside  him. 

"What  has  happened?"  I  asked. 

"Somethin'  fierce,"  he  replied.  "Shure  the  blood 
is  curdlin'  in  the  veins  of  me ;  but  don't  open  your 
mouth,  for  I  don't  want  the  blaguards  disturbed." 

"Ah!  there  are  thieves  in  your  house,"  said  I,  in 
a  whisper. 

"Worse  nor  that,"  said  he. 

A  shiver  went  through  me.  "Has  some  one  been 
murdered?"  I  queried,  halting  at  the  threshold  of 
his  door. 

"Yis,"  he  answered  in  a  husky  voice,  and  re 
lapsing  completely  into  the  vernacular,  "the  sowl  in 
me  is  murthered." 

I  walked  behind  him  mechanically.  He  entered 
the  bedroom  on  tiptoe,  and  bade  me  follow  him.  It 
did  not  occur  to  me  then  that  I  had,  rather  uncon 
sciously,  been  lured  from  my  own  domicile  to  the 
bedroom  of  a  man  to  whom  I  had  never  spoken 
before.  It  seemed  perfectly  proper  that  I  should 
follow  this  little  old  man,  just  as  if  it  had  been  a 
little  old  white-haired  woman.  He  tiptoed  to  the 
little  window  and  pointed  to  something  outside.  I 
fully  believed  that  I  was  to  see  something  awful, 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  143 

so  I  closed  my  eyes,  almost  involuntarily,  it  would 
seem,  as  I  walked  to  where  he  stood.  When  I 
opened  them  they  looked  upon  the  lovely  Hulda 
and  the  brother-in-law.  Her  cheek  was  close  to  his 
cheek ;  she  was  looking  into  his  eyes,  and  both  were 
smiling.  I  smiled,  too,  and  looked  on  approvingly, 
for  I  had  believed  for  three  months  that  my  neigh 
bors  were  father  and  daughter. 

"Isn't  that  purty  conduct  for  a  well-brought-up 
Dutch  gurl,  an'  the  wife  of  as  good  a  man  as  ever 
wore  shoe  leather?"  he  asked.  His  voice  sounded 
hollow  and  strange.  At  the  word  "wife"  I  turned 
and  fled,  for  the  full  significance  burst  upon  me. 

"Come  back,"  he  called,  "an"  tell  me  what  you 
think  of  it." 

I  paid  no  attention  to  the  request,  and  gained  my 
own  apartment  very  much  out  of  breath,  but  in  a 
few  minutes  the  little  man  returned  and  said  that 
the  girl  was  having  a  fit.  So  I  followed  him  again. 
This  time  there  was  no  mystery;  I  knew  only  too 
well  that  there  had  been  a  quarrel.  When  I  returned 
to  the  bedroom  the  fair  Hulda  lay  stretched  upon 
the  floor  in  what  appeared  to  be  a  swoon.  There 
was  a  black  girl  bathing  her  forehead  with  bayrum, 
and  all  about  was  dire  confusion. 

"You  had  no  right  to  tell  me  to  cook  that  cab 
bage,  and  you  had  no  right  to  throw  away  that 


144  DROLL  STORIES 

sauerkraut,"  said  the  negro  servant,  as  she  helped 
me  to  lift  her  mistress  from  the  floor  to  the  bed. 

"Shure,  there's  nothing  in  the  world  as  bad  for 
a  woman  in  her  condition  as  sauerkraut,"  answered 
the  little  m'an,  meekly. 

On  hearing  the  words  "sauerkraut"  Hulda  be 
came  quite  hysterical  and  began  to  kick  and  to  abuse 
the  "architect." 

"What  am  I  to  do  at  all,  at  all?"  said  he,  as  he 
endeavored  to  stroke  her  head,  in  return  for  which 
she  pinched  and  tried  to  bite  him.  "God  be  praised 
and  glorified,"  ejaculated  the  husband.  "I  thry  to 
plaze  the  creature,  an'  she  has  everything  that  I  can 
get  for  her.  Say,  Hulda,  is  it  your  brother-in-law 
you  want?" 


THE  CANAL  ZONE  ARCHITECT'S  WEDDING. 


A 


(PART  IV.) 

T  this  point  there  came  an  interruption 
in  the  person  of  the  doctor  who  had 
been  called.  He  was  very  red  in  the 
face,  and  as  he  prepared  to  take 
Hulda's  temperature  he  asked  of  her 
husband,  "What  is  all  this  ruction 
about?  How  many  more  times  must 
I  witness  these  scenes?  Why  don't  you  give  the 
girl  up  ?  Some  day  she'll  stick  a  knife  in  your  back, 
and  then  she  will  be  sent  to  prison  for  life." 

"Glory  be  to  God!"  shouted  the  "architect. 
"Ain't  the  woman  me  wife?" 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  tell  it,"  said  the 
doctor.  "You,  with  one  leg  in  the  grave  and  the 
other  on  the  brink.  I  am  going  to  send  her  to  the 
hospital  now,  and  you  are  to  leave  her  there.  The 
girl  is  too  young  to  be  married  to  an  old  fellow 
like  you." 

"I'm  only  34,"  replied  the  Vickingstadt. 
"You're  a  cheerful  idiot  of  a  liar,"  retorted  the 
doctor. 


146  DROLL  STORIES 

In  the  end  two  men  came  with  a  stretcher,  and 
Hulda  was  taken  from  her  husband's  house,  never 
to  return  to  live  with  him  again.  The  medico  fol 
lowed,  banging  the  door  behind  him. 

"He's  of  me  own  race,"  said  "Mickey"  Vickins, 
"an'  he  do  be  mad  to  see  how  young  me  wife  is, 
because  'blood  is  thicker  than  water'  an'  he  hates 
to  hear  the  lads  laughin'  at  me  misfortunes.  We 
of  the  Irish  race  do  be  very  outspoken  with  each 
other,  an  'that's  why  we  get  the  name  of  being  such 
fighters ;  but  I  observe  that  we  can't  beat  the  Dutch, 
bad  luck  to  them.  Well,  she's  gone,  and  'tis  a  rest 
I'll  be  after  havin'  now,"  said  he,  "for  the  floor  is 
that  hard  that  me  bones  ache." 

He  had  peace  in  his  home  after  this,  but  he  re 
ceived  letters  from  Culebra  telling  him  he  must 
support  his  wife.  One  day  Hulda  returned  and 
rifled  his  boxes  in  the  hope  of  procuring  the  deeds 
to  his  property,  but,  instead,  she  found  his  citizen 
ship  papers,  correspondence  school  diploma  and  an 
honorable  discharge  from  the  United  States  Army. 
These  she  tore  into  shreds  and  left  them  where  her 
husband  could  readily  find  them;.  She  had  taken 
up  her  residence  at  the  home  of  her  brother-in-law 
in  Colon,  and  many  evil  tongues  were  wagging.'  The 
"boys"  teased  the  Vickingstadt,  and  he  was  terribly 
crushed  as  a  result,  for  he  disliked  to  hear  Hulda 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  147 

criticised.  "God  forgive  her,"  he  would  say,  "I 
tried  to  be  an  ideal  man.  I  was  lovin',  an'  she  said 
I  was  too  lovin'.  I  never  tasted  a  drop  of  liquor, 
an'  she  said  that  wasn't  natural.  I  never  smoked  or 
chewed  tobacco,  an'  she  said  she'd  rather  have  me 
do  both,  because  smokin'  and  chewin'  was  good  for 
the  breath.  Now,  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  Tis 
a  hard  thing  to  understand  the  ladies,  bad  cess  to 
them.  I  never  could  understand  them. 

I  had  been  given  an  opportunity  to  review  this 
international  marriage  exhaustively,  and  I  decided 
that  neither  Hulda  nor  the  "architect"  were  to 
blame.  It  was  poverty  that  forced  the  girl  to  seek 
a  husband  in  a  foreign  land,  and  it  was  an  un 
developed  sense  of  the  artistic  and  romantical  that 
lured  the  Vickingstadt  from  his  proper  sphere.  Cir 
cumstances  helped,  as  you  will  have  perceived. 
Hulda's  one  aim  now  was  to  have  her  husband  dis 
missed  from  the  service,  so  she  wrote  letters  to 
Culebra  accusing  him  of  having  starved  her.  He 
sent  canceled  checks  to  prove  that  he  gave  her  more 
money  than  the  average  man  gives  his  wife,  and  it 
became  necessary  for  an  inspector  to  investigate  the 
affair  for  the  good  of  every  one.  The  latter  was 
wise  in  his  day  and  generation,  and  he  reported  to 
Culebra  that  Mrs.  Brian  McVickins  did  not  love  her 
husband.  Two  clerks  had  been  kept  busy  attending 


148  DROLL  STORIES 

to  the  contradictory  reports  of  the  pair,  and,  in  order 
to  lighten  expenses  for  the  Canal  Commission, 
Brian  McVickins  was  requested  to  resign. 

About  this  time  he  came  to  me  and  informed  me 
that  he  was  the  father  of  a  little  girl.  "But,  shure, 
'tis  pots  and  pans  they  threw  at  me  whin  I  wint  to 
see  the  little  creature.  May  the  Lord  forgive  them. 
The  doctor  tells  me  that  she's  the  dead  spit  of  me, 
an*  'tis  take  her  away  I  would,  only  poor  Hulda 
won't  have  anything  else  to  love  after  I'm  gone." 

He  spoke  with  that  assurance  with  which  mar 
ried  men  are  apt  to  speak  when  referring  to  their 
wives,  and  he  appeared  to  think  that  I  thought  him 
much  beloved  by  Hulda.  He  hated  to  acknowledge 
defeat  in  the  game  of  love,  because  he  possessed  the 
vanity  common  to  his  sex.  I  made  no  comment, 
and  he  rambled  on :  "The  law  doesn't  expect  me  to 
do  anything  for  her  at  all,  at  all,  but  I'll  always  be 
after  sindin'  a  little  money  for  the  poor  child,  an' 
'tis  glad  I  am  that  she  looks  like  me,  instead  of  like 
the  Dutch,  bad  luck  to  them.  It's  the  Lord  that 
will  bless  you  for  the  kind  words  you  said  about  the 
matter,  and  'tis  never  a  word  you  said  against  the 
poor,  misguided  gurl.  The  poor  gurl  ain't  been  to 
blame  at  all,  at  all ;  'twas  the  vanity  of  me  in  middle 
age  wantin'  a  young  colleen  with  golden  hair  and  a 
slim  figure  for  a  wife.  May  the  Lord  forgive  me." 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  149 

With  that,  he  thanked  me  for  the  counsel  I  had 
given  him,  which,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  never 
taken,  and,  after  wringing  my  hand  until  it  hurt, 
went  his  way  with  bowed  head.  Six  months  before, 
he  was  a  dapper  little  man,  with  a  quick,  light  step, 
and  he  did  not  look  a  day  older  than  fifty,  but  now 
his  eyes  were  sunken,  his  cheeks  were  wrinkled,  and 
he  had  the  general  air  of  a  man  who  was  terribly 
tired.  I  have  not  heard  from  him  since. 

Soon  after  this,  Hulda  departed  for  the  United 
States.  Unaccompanied  and  carrying  her  baby  and  a 
suitcase,  she  walked  up  the  steamer's  ladder  with 
tired  tread  and  an  air  that  suggested  trouble.  Friends 
of  her  husband  who  stood  upon  the  pier  shook  their 
heads  and  said  sadly,  "  Tis  a  goldurned  shame,  for 
she  shure  was  a  good-looker  when  "Mickey" 
brought  her  down." 

Her  eyes  were  now  red  and  tired-looking,  her 
cheeks  were  hollow  and  her  mouth  had  the  expres 
sion  of  bitterness  that  comes  from  disappointment. 
One  might  easily  picture  her  looking  for  a  cheap 
room  and  having  the  rooming-house  women  con 
jecture  that  she  had  never  been  married.  She  would 
look  for  work,  too,  and,  notwithstanding  her  accom 
plishments,  she  would  probably  find  it  in  some  one's 
kitchen.  In  her  shabby  maternity  dress  of  cheap 
gingham  she  was  a  sorry  contrast  to  the  gay  pas- 


150  DROLL  STORIES 

sengers  who  ran  hither  and  thither,  frantically 
waving  farewells  to  their  friends  on  the  dock.  She 
alone  sat  apart  and  hugged  her  child  to  her  breast. 
"A  tragic  figure,"  observed  a  man  with  a  pitying 
smile.  As  the  ship  pulled  out,  a  kindly  sunbeam  fell 
upon  her,  and  for  a  moment  lighted  up  the  golden 
tints  in  her  still  beautiful  hair. 


GRAFT. 


A 


FEW  years  ago,  on  one  of  the  dingy 
streets  of  Panama,  I  occupied  a  room 
furnished  with  a  canvas  cot,  a  chair, 
a  very  shaky  little  table  for  the  kero 
sene  lamp,  and  a  dry  goods  box, 
which  I  used  for  a  desk.  One  day  a 
young  widowed  friend,  who  was  em 
ployed  by  the  Canal  Commission,  called  upon  me 
and  invited  me  to  visit  her.  She  lived  in  a  beau 
tiful  house,  with  other  female  employees,  some 
distance  from  the  city.  "I  have  a  large  room,"  she 
said,  "and  if  you  can  succeed  in  keeping  the  'gum 
shoe'  men  from  knowing  that  you  are  there,  you 
will  be  able  to  save  a  great  deal  of  money  by  it. 
Think  of  it!  Fifty  dollars  in  two  months!  You  will 
be  able  to  get  that  picture  hat  which  you  wanted  so 
badly,  and  we  shall  be  glad  to  have  you  with  us." 

After  giving  the  matter  some  serious  thought  I 
decided  to  accept  the  invitation  of  my  kind-hearted 
friend,  the  young  widow.  The  inmates  of  the 
house  consisted  of  five  young  girls,  my  friend,  the 
young  widow;  a  still  younger  widow,  and  a  widow 
by  courtesy.  I  was  assigned  to  a  small  bed  in  a 


152  DROLL  STORIES 

corner  of  the  widow's  room,  and  warned  by  all  to 
'ware  the  "gumshoes."  The  local  sleuth  was  de 
scribed  to  me  circumstantially,  and  I  was  enjoined 
to  explain  my  presence — should  such  a  person  come 
prowling  around — by  pretending  that  I  was  a  seam 
stress. 

Except  for  the  fear  of  the  above-mentioned  gen 
tleman,  my  life  at  this  time  was  very  peaceful.  The 
atmosphere  of  the  house  was  almost  heavenly,  the 
ladies  appearing  to  live  in  the  utmost  amity — until 
the  arrival  of  the  man — not  the  "gumshoe,"  but  one 
from  Rockland,  Maine,  named  Luther  M.  Pettingill, 
called  "Pet"  for  short.  He  came  to  court  the  fairest 
of  the  younger  girls,  Adelaide,  who  could  cook  fish 
cakes  a  la  Bangor,  and  other  Down  East  delicacies 
in  a  way  calculated  to  touch  the  toughest  Yankee 
heart.  Though  "Pet"  was  not  handsome,  Adelaide 
grew  to  be  very  fond  of  him,  and  in  time  she  an 
nounced  that  they  were  engaged.  This  announce 
ment  took  the  household  rather  by  surprise, 
naturally,  and  one  night  while  the  lovers  were  out 
riding  the  matter  was  discussed  at  length  in  the 
widow's  room.  It  then  first  became  apparent  to 
me  that  "Pet's"  visits — who  came  morning,  noon 
and  night — were  not  greatly  relished  by  the  other 
girls.  It  appeared  that  he  came  around  early,  not 
only  to  eat  breakfast,  but  to  help  prepare  it.  Be- 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  153 

fore  his  advent,  Sunday  morning  was  a  time  of  de 
lightful  relaxation,  when  the  ladies  would  sit  around 
in  their  kimonos  and  "just  talk."  Every  one  helped 
in  the  preparation  of  the  breakfast  and  indulged  in 
pleasantries  while  they  worked,  which  greatly  light 
ened  the  labor.  Now,  all  this  was  changed.  The 
table  in  the  dining-room  (fixed  up  with  the  widow's 
things)  would  be  spread  for  Adelaide  and  her  lover, 
and  they  sat  long  over  the  fish-cakes  and  beans, 
while  we  waited  on  the  veranda  like  "hired  help." 
They  would  talk  at  great  length  of  the  folks  "down 
our  way";  of  "Pet's"  Uncle  Henry;  of  old  Cap'n 
Eli;  of  the  "Grange,"  and  many  other  thrilling 
topics,  to  say  nothing  of  Aunt  Patience,  who,  it 
seemed,  had  taken  Mr.  Pettingill  when  he  was  a 
cute  little  darling  and  had  raised  him  to  man's 
estate.  It  appeared  as  though  the  lovers  were  ab 
solutely  unconscious  of  the  fact  that  eight  half- 
starved  females  were  waiting  to  break  their  fast. 

I  tried  my  best  to  smooth  things  over;  for,  on 
account  of  my  own  peculiar  position  in  the  house 
hold,  I  had  a  fellow-feeling  for  "Pet."  Some  of  the 
younger  girls  proposed  going  to  the  Quartermaster 
and  demanding  that  Mr.  P.  be  requested,  through 
his  chief,  to  discontinue  his  visits 'to  the  house.  But 
the  others  did  not  approve  of  this  course,  because 
there  were  other  beaux  who  came  and  went  at 


154  DROLL  STORIES 

reasonable  hours,  and  who  might  cease  their  visits 
altogether  on  account  of  the  utter  tactlessness  of 
Mr.  Pettingill.  So,  it  was  decided  to  suffer  in  silence. 
This  pleased  me  immensely,  as  my  graft  from  the 
taxpayers  of  the  U.  S.  A.  would  most  likely  end  if 
an  investigation  was  made  into  the  affairs  of  that 
household.  Then,  too,  there  were  casual  escorts  to 
Saturday-night  dances,  who  also  might  be  affected 
if  an  inquiry  was  called  for. 

Meanwhile  Adelaide  continued  to  produce  her 
culinary  masterpieces,  with  the  able  assistance  of 
"Pet,"  who  waxed  fatter  and  merrier,  happily  un 
conscious  of  the  storm  that  was  brewing.  Adelaide 
had  now  engaged  the  services  of  a  young  female 
from  Jamaica  who,  in  appropriate  livery,  held  sway 
in  the  kitchen,  almost  to  the  exclusion  of  all  others. 
Gwendoline  (for  that  was  her  name)  waited  upon 
the  lovers  in  the  most  approved  fashion,  while  we — 
when  we  were  given  the  chance — 'waited  upon  our 
selves  in  a  way  that  was  truly  Bohemian.  In  pro 
cession,  we  conveyed  the  various  dishes  to  the  table, 
and  between  courses  we  laid  the  plates  on  the  crex- 
covered  floor.  Gradually  my  fear  of  detection  wore 
away,  as  the  time  approached  when  I  was  to  realize 
my  dream  of  a  picture  hat. 

On  the  last  Monday  of  my  stay  with  the  young 
ladies  my  hat  was  brought  home.  This  day  also 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  155 

marked  a  radical  change  in  the  affairs  of  the  house 
hold,  "graft,"  and  in  Mr.  Pettingill,  who  was  obliged 
to  seek  a  new  course  of  diet  among  his  less  favored 
bachelor  acquaintances.  Oh  this  morning  the  girls 
went  about  their  business  as  usual.  "Pet"  had  break 
fasted,  as  was  his  wont,  and  had  departed  whistling, 
as  his  digestion  was  good  and  his  heart  light  in  con 
sequence.  I  spent  some  time  "trying  on"  the  hat, 
and,  naturally,  failed  to  observe  the  doings  of  Gwen 
doline,  until  at  almost  eleven  o'clock  I  noticed  that 
the  clothes-lines  were  filled  to  overflowing  with 
snow-white  garments.  I  noted  some  dainty  lingerie 
dresses,  but  I  was  too  busy  with  my  own  thoughts 
to  take  particular  interest  in  a  mere  clothes-line. 
Soon,  however,  I  was  startled  by  my  friend,  the 
young  widow,  who  burst  into  the  room  like  a 
cyclone.  She  threw  herself  upon  the  couch  and 
burst  into  tears. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  I  asked  in  bewilderment. 

"Why,  we're  the  laughing  stock  of  the  whole 
town,'  she  replied.  "Those  men  over  there  in  the 
bachelor  quarters  are  laughing  to  kill  themselves, 
and  making  all  kinds  of  jokes  at  our  expense.  Ad 
elaide  is  an  awful  girl  to  bring  this  ridicule  upon  us." 

Just  then  the  young  widow  and  two  of  the  girls 
burst  in.  "Isn't  that  a  disgraceful  exhibition?" 
questioned  one  of  them.  "Why,  one  of  those  awful 


156  DROLL  STORIES 

men  asked  me  who  owned  them,  and  then  all  the 
others  laughed.  I'm  ashamed  to  pass  by  them  on 
the  way  to  the  office  this  afternoon." 

Having  now  a  hint  at  the  cause  of  the  tempest, 
I  took  a  good  look  through  the  window  at  the 
clothes-line — i  and,  lo !  there  burst  upon  my  view  an 
array  of  faded  khaki  trousers,  gingham  shirts  and 
balbriggan  undergarments — all  in  an  advanced  state 
of  patches — merrily  dancing  to  the  light  tropical 
zephyrs  which  filled  them  and  caused  them  to  act  in 
quite  a  human  manner. 

"Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  disgusting?" 
asked  the  young  widow.  Of  course,  I  tried  to  make 
light,  and  suggested  to  the  ladies  a  picture  of  Aunt 
Patience  patiently  patching  the  offensive  garments, 
but  they  shook  their  heads  in  disgust  and  chided  me 
for  my  levity.  Adelaide  was  called  in  and  requested 
to  take  the  horrid  things  from  the  line.  She  listened 
to  what  the  ladies  had  to  say,  and  then,  without 
replying,  turned  to  leave  the  room. 

"If  the  clothing  was  not  so  terribly  patched  it 
would  not  seem  so  vulgar,"  said  one  of  the  girls. 

"I  cannot  imagine  anyone  of  refinement  caring 
for  a  man  who  could  wear  such  rags,"  said  the 
younger  widow.  "My  husband  never  wore  anything 
but  silk." 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  157 

Adelaide  heard  the  comments  in  silence  and 
quietly  left  the  room. 

"I  am  going  to  complain  about  this,"  said  the 
young  widow. 

"You  had  better  use  the  telephone,"  said  some 
one.  "You  can  say  more  that  way." 

She  dashed  down  to  the  telephone  and  the  follow 
ing  dialogue  took  place,  afterward  repeated  to  me 
by  a  friend : 

Widow — Hello!   Is  this  the  Quartermaster?" 

Q.  M.— "Yes.    What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

Widow — "Please  send  a  man  over  to  take  the 
clothes  in." 

Q.  M.  (stuttering)— "Wha-at— what's  the  matter 
with  the  clothes?" 

Widow— "Just  take  a  look  at  the  line— LOOK 
at  it." 

Q.  M.  (after  a  pause) — "I  don't  see  anything 
wrong  with  it — it  looks  good  to  me." 

Widow — "Heavens!  But  look  at  those  awful 
clothes  on  the  line,  will  you?" 

Q.  M.— "There  DOES  seem  to  be  a  discordant 
note  in  that  line,  but  I  can  do  nothing  for  you.  If 
I  were  seen  monkeying  around  that  finery  I  might 
be  deported." 

Widow — "Well,  you  needn't  make  fun  of  me." 


158  DROLL  STORIES 

Q.  M. — "I  would  like  to  oblige  you,  but  I  cannot 
meddle  with  such  matters." 

Widow — "Well,  perhaps  you  can  tell  me  this: 
Have  such  clothes  any  right  on  our  line?" 

Q.  M. — "Certainly  not.  They  look  terribly  out 
of  place,  as  the  house  is  a  home  for  young  lady 
employees  and  charming  widows  like  yourself." 

Now,  this  was  more  than  the  widow  could  stand, 
and,  hanging  up  the  receiver,  she  rushed  back  to  us 
with  many  complaints  of  the  Q.  M.'s  discourtesy. 
-  "We'll  take  it  up  with  Culebra,"  chorused  the 
girls,  whereupon  I  proceeded  to  pack  my  suitcase, 
thinking  the  time  propitious  for  my  departure.  But, 
too  late.  The  news  of  the  flutter  in  the  dovecote 
had  already  reached  the  ears  of  a  certain  vigilant 
person,  whose  business  it  was  to  report  on  and  to 
adjust  all  matters  of  such  weighty  importance.  This 
gentleman  now  appeared  before  us  and  gravely 
proceeded  to  question  each  one  in  turn.  His  manner 
was  solemn  and  ponderous,  as  to  almost  make  us 
fancy  ourselves  on  the  witness  stand  in  a  murder 
trial.  Adelaide,  the  offending  one,  was  questioned 
last,  and,  strange  to  say,  culprit  though  she  was, 
bore  the  inquisition  with  less  embarrassment  than 
any  of  the  others,  fortified,  perhaps,  by  the  knowl 
edge  of  the  steadfast  affection  of  the  husky  Mr. 
Pettingill.  At  any  rate,  she  came  through  the  ordeal 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  159 

with  much  credit  to  herself,  without  adding  any 
laurels  to  the  brow  of  her  inquisitor. 

"Pending  the  verdict  of  Culebra,"  he  said  pom 
pously,  as  he  finished  his  notes,  "I  would  suggest 
that  the  gentleman  cease  his  visits  for  a  while."  He 
also  suggested  that  the  clothes  be  removed  from 
the  line.  This  was  done  immediately  by  Gwen 
doline,  amidst  the  jeers  of  the  bachelors  next  door. 
After  these  directions  were  given  he  stalked  out  with 
measured,  judicial  tread,  and  a  sigh  of  relief  went  up 
as  the  door  closed  behind  him. 

At  six  o'clock  that  night  I  came  away  with  a  deep 
feeling  of  regret.  As  I  was  riding  to  the  station  I 
observed  the  disconsolate  form  of  "Pet"  seated 
upon  the  steps  of  his  quarters,  with  his  face  buried 
in  his  hands,  the  setting  sun  forming  a  lustrous  halo 
about  his  bowed  head,  while  faintly  on  the  evening 
air  was  wafted  o'er  him,  unnoticed,  the  distant  rattle 
of  the  knives  and  plates  of  the  I.  C.  C.  Hotel. 


THE  STORY  OF  VERE  DE  VERE. 


E  know  not  in  our  poor  philosophy 
what  hidden  chords  are  touched  by 
unseen  hands. 

More  than  a  hundred  years  ago 
there  lived  in  the  Sunny  South  a 
handsome  cavalier,  who  was  noted 
for  his  riches,  daring  and  cruelty. 
It  is  recorded  that,  whenever  a  man 
opposed  him,  he  coolly  ran  him  through  with  his 
broadsword;  and  whenever  a  female  repulsed  him 
he  disgraced  her,  if  he  had  an  opportunity,  or  else 
some  one  who  was  near  and  dear  to  her. 

The  greatest  artist  of  his  time  painted  his  portrait, 
and  it  hangs  to-day  in  one  of  the  public  institutions 
of  his  native  State.  Tradition  has  it  that  he  once 
killed  a  gypsy  lad  who  happened  to  win  the  love  of 
a  young  gypsy  girl  with  whom  he  imagined  himself 
to  be  in  love,  and  that  a  gypsy  woman  cursed  him 
for  the  deed  and  wrote  his  horoscope  with  the  blood 
of  the  murdered  youth  as  follows:  "That  his  line 
would  cease  with  one  girl,  who  would  live  long 
enough  to  disgrace  his  name;  that  many  years  of 
her  life  would  be  spent  in  a  vile  prison  among 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  161 

negroes  in  a  foreign  land  for  a  crime  like  the  one 
he  had  then  committed." 

This  view  behind  the  curtain  seems  to  have  had 
a  strong  effect  upon  the  cruel  cavalier,  for  he  de 
cided  to  marry  and  settle  down  like  the  people 
around  him.  His  wife  was  a  woman  of  gentle  char 
acter,  and  her  influence  wrought  a  great  change  in 
the  morals  of  her  husband,  for  it  was  said  that  he 
became  quite  religious,  and,  when  a  little  girl  was 
born  to  him,  with  many  tears  and  prayers  he  dedi 
cated  the  child  to  God. 

Meantime  the  years  rolled  on.  The  cavalier  died, 
and,  as  daughter  after  daughter  was  born  of  his  line, 
his  name  became  extinct.  Then,  too,  poverty,  the 
great  leveler,  had  come  upon  the  family.  His 
portrait,  his  signature  to  a  famous  document,  and 
the  tale  of  the  gypsy's  curse  were  all  that  remained 
of  the  cavalier.  Those  who  watched  for  the  fulfill 
ment  of  the  curse  died  and  were  forgotten;  and  at 
last  a  daughter  was  born,  fifth  in  line  from  him. 
Her  mother  departed  this  world  at  her  birth;  her 
father,  some  months  later,  and  it  devolved  upon  the 
neighbors  to  care  for  the  orphaned  child.  As  she 
grew  to  womanhood  people  remarked  that  she  bore 
a  strong  resemblance  to  the  portrait  of  her  great 
grandfather  on  her  mother's  side,  and  by  a  special 
act  of  the  Legislature,  she  was  given  his  name. 


162  DROLL  STORIES 

At  17,  being  pretty,  gracious,  sensible  and 
womanly,  with  a  genius  for  music,  a  great  future 
was  predicted  for  her;  but,  in  the  parlance  of  the 
day,  "she  went  wrong."  Her  betrayer  was  the  son 
of  one  of  the  most  opulent  families  in  the  State, 
and,  at  his  mother's  request,  the  girl  was  sent  to  a 
distant  Southern  city.  Here,  after  a  few  months, 
necessity  compelled  her  to  take  up  a  residence  in 
the  underworld,  and  the  friends  of  her  childhood 
thenceforth  knew  her  no  more.  She  had  been  the 
ward  of  every  one  at  home,  and  was,  therefore,  the 
ward  of  no  one;  and  her  disappearance  was  only  a 
nine  days'  wonder. 

In  spite  of  her  degraded  calling,  men  admired  her, 
and,  because  of  a  certain  haughtiness  in  her  bearing 
toward  them,  she  was  called  "Vere  de  Vere,"  and 
it  was  known  that  she  was  sought  with  honest  in 
tention  by  men  who  declared  that  they  loved  her 
for  her  womanliness  and  the  music  of  her  laugh. 
The  creatures  of  the  world  stood  in  awe  of  her,  be 
cause  of  her  dignity,  and  they  feared  her  because  of 
her  violent  temper.  So,  she  lived  her  scarlet  life, 
apparently  without  regret,  until  one  day  an  old  man 
from  her  native  State  happened  in  and  amused  his 
listeners  by  telling  weird  stories  which,  he  said,  had 
been  told  him  by  his  grandmother.  He  related  the 
story  of  Vere  de  Vere's  ancestor,  without  knowing; 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  163 

that  one  of  his  listeners  was  the  only  person  upon 
whom  the  curse  might  fall.  Nor  did  he  know  that 
when  Vere  de  Vere  fainted  he  had  touched  a  chord 
of  sensibility  rarely  found  in  the  nature  of  women 
of  her  sort. 

On  the  morning  of  the  following  day  Vere  de 
Vere  told  her  associates  that  she  desired  to  go  to 
work  and  earn  an  honest  living.  "This  is  not  the 
right  life  for  me,"  said  she  to  her  incredulous  audi 
tors.  "I  was  born  to  a  higher  life.  I  shall  be  good ; 
I  shall  marry,  and  I  shall  have  children,"  with  which 
announcement  she  left  them,  to  begin  life  anew. 

How  fresh  and  beautiful  the  morning  seemed  to 
her  as  she  hurried  toward  a  park!  What  do  you 
know  of  fresh,  green,  delightful  mornings?  she  said 
to  herself  as  she  sat  down  and  took  a  deep  breath. 
A  bird  twittering  in  a  branch  above  her  head,  and  a 
pair  of  squirrels  playing  in  the  grass  beside  her, 
made  her  smile  and  forget.  A  man  in  passing  leered 
at  her  and  attempted  to  speak,  but  she  checked  him 
abruptly  with  the  information  that  he  had  made  a 
mistake.  "I  shall  wear  black  for  a  time,"  she 
thought.  Then  she  began  to  wonder  what  she  could 
do.  She  could  sew  beautifully.  A  light  came  into 
her  eyes  at  the  thought  of  the  creations  that  she  had 
designed  for  her  underworld  revels.  She  could  em 
broider,  paint  china  and  play  the  violin. 


164  DROLL  STORIES 

She  bought  a  newspaper  and  looked  through  the 
list  of  advertisements.  The  following  attracted  her 
attention : 

"WANTED— A  lady  violinist  and  seven 
other  lady  musicians  to  make  up  a  lady  or 
chestra  for  a  first-class  hotel  in  Panama." 

Her  heart  leaped  for  joy.  "This  is  my  chance.  I 
shall  go  to  Panama.  It  is  far  away,  and  no  one  will 
recognize  me  there,"  said  the  poor  girl  as  she 
hastened  to  answer  the  advertisement. 

At  noon  on  the  following  day  she  was  standing 
on  the  ship's  deck  on  her  way  to  Colon,  and  as  New 
Orleans  receded  from  view  her  lips  moved  in 
prayer;  she  was  asking  God  to  give  her  strength  to 
lead  a  better  life. 

The  man  who  had  engaged  her  had  complimented 
her  upon  her  skill  at  playing.  "You  may  not  like 
Panama,"  said  he,  "  for  the  life  down  there  is  rough, 
and  I  see  you  are  a  lady." 

In  a  few  days  she  was  walking  the  streets  of 
Colon  in  glorious  freedom.  Men  eyed  her  furtively 
from  some  safe  retreat,  but  no  one  ventured  to  accost 
her.  There  was  no  one  to  lift  an  eyebrow  or  to  give 
a  scornful  glance.  "Safe,  thank  God!"  she  said. 
"I  shall  not  be  the  victim  of  that  curse."  She  was 
thinking  of  what  she  should  wear  that  night.  A 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  165 

simple  white  muslin  dress;  a  white  rose  in  her  hair. 
No  paint,  no  jewelry,  no  more  bright  colors.  "I  shall 
save  my  money  and  buy  a  little  home,"  she  thought. 

"It  is  time  to  dress,"  said  one  of  her  girl  friends, 
breaking  in  upon  her  reverie.  "We  are  to  go  to  the 
hotel  at  seven."  But  it  was  not  an  hotel — it  was  a 
barroom  where  employes  of  the  Canal  Commis 
sion  and  the  riff-raff  of  God's  great  universe  as 
sembled  nightly  to  drink  to  excess  and  discuss  the 
slanderous  gossip  of  the  Isthmus. 

When  Vere  de  Vere  arrived  at  the  entrance  she 
faltered  and  refused  to  go  in.  "It  is  a  low  bar 
room,"  said  she  to  her  companions,  "and  there  are 
drunkards  inside  who  will  say  vile  things  to  us." 

"But  we  must  play  there,  or  else  we  won't  be  able 
to  live,"  said  one  of  the  girls. 

So  they  walked  in,  single  file,  through  the  rows 
of  leering  men,  leaving  the  frightened  girl  on  the 
sidewalk. 

"Aw,  come  on  in,  kid,"  said  the  manager,  whose 
name  was  "Blinkey."  "This  is  an  all-right  place; 
the  best  in  town.  There  ain't  no  first-class  hotels  in 
this  God-forsaken  place.  What  'ud  support  'em? 
Not  the  I.  C.  C.  roughnecks  an'  P.  R.  R.  pen-push 
ers.  Not  on  your  life,  kid.  Why  did  I  say  that  the 
place  was  a  first-class  hotel?  Because  I'm  a  liar,  of 
course.  Come  on  in." 


166  DROLL  STORIES 

"I  want  to  live  a  good  life,"  replied  the  girl,  with 
the  calmness  of  despair  in  her  voice. 

"Well,  that's  up  to  you,  my  girl.  I  ain't  askin' 
you  not  to  lead  a  good  life.  You  can  be  as  good  as 
Saint  Cecelia  an'  play  here  every  night.  The  better 
you  are,  the  greater  attraction  you'll  be  for  this 
joint,  for  good  ladies  are  doggoned  scarce  on  the 
Isthmus.  I'll  tell  the  boys  all  about  you,  an'  when 
I  get  through  I  bet  you  they'll  respect  you.  You 
must  play  that  'Good  Night'  solo  when  you  see  that 
they're  about  half-shot.  Come  on  in;  I'll  lead  you. 
My!  you  are  shiverin'  an'  your  hand  is  as  cold  as 
ice.  You  bet  the  boys  '11  know  when  they  see  a  real 
lady.  You  look  like  a  little  girl  in  that  simple  white 
dress." 

So  she  allowed  "Blinkey"  to  lead  her  by  the  hand 
into  the  reeking  barroom  and  onto  the  balcony, 
where  her  girl  companions  awaited  her.  Then  the 
manager  announced,  in  the  unmistakable  voice  of 
the  professional  barker:  "Gen-tle-men :  I  wish  to 
introduce  to  your  favorable  notice  Miss  Merriam 
Leigh,  the  famous  violinist.  She  has  medals  which 
were  presented  to  her  by  the  Emperors  of  Germany, 
Austria  and  Japan ;  medals  that  are  worth  a  fortune, 
and  the  little  lady  is  too  modest  to  wear  'em.  This 
is  the  lady  who  entranced  with  her  violin  solos  the 
late  King  Edward  the  Seventh,  and  made  him  ex- 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  167 

claim,  a  few  moments  before  he  died,  To  endow 
with  such  genius  a  poor  human  being,  there  must 
be  a  God !'  I  presume  you  have  all  read  of  the  rope 
of  pearls  that  he  gave  to  this  little  lady  before  he 
died;  an  account  of  'em  was  in  all  the  papers.  I 
presume  you  all  read  about  when  Queen  Alexandra 
wanted  to  keep  her  in  her  household  to  play  for  her 
in  her  widowhood.  This  is  the  modest  little  lady 
who  conies  here  to-night  to  let  the  P.  R.  R.'s  and 
the  I.  C.  C.'s  hear  her  play.  You  can  see  that  she's 
a  lady.  Treat  her  as  such." 

"Come  forward,  now/'  said  "Blinkey,"  in  an 
aside  that  only  the  girl  could  hear,  "and  bow  to  the 
blokes  while  there's  a  sentimental  fit  on  'em,  an' 
you'll  be  a  darned  sight  safer  here  than  you'd  have 
been  in  old  King  Eddie's  quarters." 

The  harangue  was  news  to  the  poor  girl,  and  the 
humor  of  it  made  her  smile  as  she  stepped  forward 
to  bow  to  the  waiting  throng.  Each  man  raised  his 
glass  to  toast  the  celebrity,  when  a  harsh  voice 
somewhere  among  the  drinkers  said:  "Well,  I'll  be 
gorldurned  if  it  ain't  Vere  de  Vere,  from  Mixed  Ale 
Lizzie's  place  in  N'Yawlins." 

Vere  de  Vere  heard  the  ominous  words,  and  felt 
a  faintness  overpower  her,  but,  with  that  spirit  for 
which  men  had  admired,  she  seized  her  violin  and 
played,  while  her  cheeks  flamed  and  her  eyes 


168  DROLL  RTORJES 

sparkled,  "Lead,  Kindly  Light,  Lead  Thou  Me  On." 

"She's  mad,  all  right,"  said  a  maudlin  voice  in 
the  crowd. 

"That  makes  a  feller  think  of  things  that  Gawd 
has  to  do  with,"  spoke  up  another. 

A  hush  fell  upon  the  assembly,  and  the  black 
waiters  stood  still  and  bowed  their  heads.  The  bar 
tender,  an  old  tropical  tramp,  used  his  towel  to  wipe 
his  teardrops  from  the  marble.  The  last  time  he 
had  heard  that  hymn  it  was  being  sung  at  the  funeral 
of  his  wife  away  back  on  the  farm  in  Missouri. 
There  were  many  wet  eyes  as  the  girl  frantically 
played  to  the  finish.  Then,  with  one  wild  bound, 
she  rushed  through  the  reeking  saloon,  out  into  the 
street  to  a  nearby  park,  where  she  sat  down  and 
cried  it  out. 

No  one  spoke  after  she  had  left  the  barroom,  but 
one  by  one  the  men  tiptoed  out,  leaving  unfinished 
glasses  on  the  tables  behind  them.  At  nine  o'clock 
the  place  was  deserted  and  the  doors  were  closed. 
Habitues,  who  came  too  late,  said  to  one  another, 
"I  wonder  what's  the  matter  with  'Blinkey's'  place. 
He  advertised  a  lady  orchestra  and  a  big  night  to 
night." 

"Say,  ain't  he  the  liar,  though?" 

"Well,  he  ain't  doin'  business,  that's  a  cinch. 
Wonder  what's  up." 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  169 

One  man  remained  in  "Blinkey's"  place;  it  was 
the  informer.  He  told  the  manager  all  he  knew  of 
the  violinist;  it  was,  that  he  had  seen  her  in  a  dis 
reputable  house  in  New  Orleans. 
.  "You're  a  pretty  rotten  specimen  of  manhood  to 
go  giving  her  away  like  that,"  said  "Blinkey."  "If 
you  had  any  sense  you  might  have  known  that  she 
was  trying  to  do  right,  the  poor  little  devil.  Twas 
a  rotten  deal  to  hand  out  to  me;  spoiled  a  good 
night's  business,  an'  made  a  liar  of  me." 

"But  half  of  'em  didn't  hear  what  I  said,"  pro 
tested  the  offender. 

"No,"  said  "Blinkey,"  "they  didn't  hear  you,  but 
she  did,  an'  she  played  that  to  get  'em  to  thinkin' 
of  their  pasts  as  she  was  made  to  remember  hers. 
I  bet  every  man  of  'em  left  off  livin'  right  soon  after 
the  last  time  they  heard  that  played;  I  know  I  did. 
Twas  when  poor  Maggie  died,  Gawd  rest  her  soul ! 
There's  ginger  in  that  girl;  there's  soul  an'  feelin' 
in  her,  an'  pride.  I  had  to  coax  her  to  come  in,  an' 
she  said  somethin'  about  wantin'  to  lead  a  good 
life." 

"That's  the  way  in  this  darned  old  world,"  put 
in  the  bartender.  "Step  a  little  bit  askew,  an'  down 
you  go ;  but,  when  you  try  to  buck  up,  some  gink 
comes  along  that  hain't  got  sense  enough  to  get  in 
when  it  rains,  an'  he  blows  on  you  an'  every  one'll 


170  DROLL  STORIES 

believe  him,  an'  you  either  get  in  jail  or  into  a 
crooked  poker  game.  I  know;  I  been  there.  That 
girl'll  either  commit  suicide  or  go  back  to  the  life 
that  she's  been  tryin'  to  git  away  from  now." 

"Yes,"  said  "Blinkey,"  shaking  his  head.  "An' 
I'll  have  it  all  on  my  soul,  and  Gawd  knows  I  have 
enough  to  answer  for  now.  I'll  get  out  of  this 
business,  by  heck;  I  will." 

"Well,  I  guess  I'll  be  goin',"  said  the  informer. 
"I'm  fed  up  on  moralizin'.  I'm  sorry  I  squealed  on 
the  merry  widow.  Good-night,  boys.  I  guess 
you're  troublin'  more  about  it  than  she  is." 

"Say!  you  didn't  tell  any  of  'em  on  the  q.  t,  did 
you?"  asked  "Blinkey,"  anxiously. 

"A  couple  of  'em,  but  they  were  too  darned 
drunk  to  remember,"  the  informer  replied. 

"Well,  say!  you'd  better  tell  them  fellers  to 
morrow  night  that  you  made  a  mistake;  that  she 
ain't  the  one  you  thought  she  was,"  said  "Blinkey,'' 
in  a  persuasive  tone. 

"If  I  think  of  it,"  said  the  informer,  as  he  walked 
leisurely  through  the  doorway  with  the  air  and 
manner  of  one  with  nothing  to  regret. 

"All  the  fire  in  purgatory  wouldn't  clean  up  that 
feller's  soul,"  said  the  bartender,  as  the  door  closed 
behind  the  man. 

"That  mut  ain't  got  no  soul.  'Lead,  Kindly  Light,' 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  171 

wasn't  wrote  for  such  spawn  as  him.  I  guess  I'll 
take  a  ride  out  into  the  savannahs  to  get  a  breath 
of  Gawd's  pure  air,  for,  I'll  tell  you  what,  the  stink 
of  this  booze  joint  is  gittin'  on  my  nerves,"  said 
"Blinkey,"  in  disgust. 

On  the  following  day  Vere  de  Vere  looked  for 
work,  but  failed  to  find  it,  and  at  night  she  went 
back  to  the  barroom  and  played,  without  looking  at 
the  drinkers.  When  her  violin  solo  was  finished 
she  sought  a  remote  corner  of  the  balcony  and  hid 
herself  behind  the  other  players. 

"That  girl  is  afraid  of  us  fellers,"  said  a  man, 
laughing. 

"It  takes  some  nerve  for  a  young  lady  like  her  to 
play  in  a  place  like  this  for  a  bunch  of  roughnecks 
like  us,"  said  another  man,  in  a  kindly  tone. 

"Better  lookout,  girl,  you'll  lose  your  virtue  here 
among  us  fellers,"  said  the  informer  of  the  night 
before,  in  a  high-pitched  voice.  This  coarse  jest  was 
greeted  with  roars  of  laughter. 

"Put  that  mut  out!"  shouted  "Blinkey"  to  the 
negro  attendants,  "an'  if  he  puts  up  a  kick,  call  in 
the  'spiggotty'  police  and  tell  'em  that  he's  a  crook, 
and  let  'em  put  the  guy  in  jail." 

The  informer  was  led  to  the  street,  but  it  was  too 
late.  The  habitues  of  "Blinkey's"  place  knew  that 
the  pretty  violinist  had  led  a  disreputable  life  in  a 


172  DROLL  STORTES 

low  resort  in  New  Orleans.  Several  of  the  less 
hardened  didn't  believe  the  story,  and  one  young 
business  man  of  Colon  was  very  much  in  love  with 
her  and  said  that  he  would  marry  her;  so  now  it 
was  rumored  that  there  was  going  to  be  a  wedding, 
and  that  free  drinks  were  to  be  served  gratis  on  that 
night  at  "Blinkey's"  place. 

The  story  of  Vere  de  Vere  became  generally 
known  and  was  freely  discussed ,  even  in  that 
quarter  of  the  city  known  as  "the  district."  The 
rumor  reached  the  ears  of  a  woman  of  ill-repute 
who  had  designs  upon  Vere  de  Vere's  lover.  Jeal 
ousy  is  a  destructive  element,  when  it  takes  root, 
in  the  most  respectable  bosom,  and  surely,  when 
in  force  in  the  disordered  mind  of  an  outcast  woman, 
it  must  be  doubly  dangerous.  This  one,  it  seems, 
had  known  Vere  de  Vere  in  New  Orleans,  and  there 
was  an  old  score  that  she  was  anxious  to  settle,  so 
she  circulated  a  horrible  story  of  the  girl's  past, 
which  not  only  shocked  Vere  de  Vere's  lover,  but 
the  hardest  characters  at  "Blinkey's"  place. 

All  this  greatly  distressed  poor  Vere  de  Vere,  for 
it  seems  there  are  depths  of  degradation  to  which 
some  women  of  the  underworld  refuse  to  sink,  and 
there  are  crimes  so  abhorrent  as  to  shock  even  their 
paralyzed  sense  of  morality. 

"I  shall  see  that  girl,"  said  poor  Vere  de  Vere. 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  173 

"I  used  to  know  her,  and  she  was  not  a  bad-hearted 
person."  So,  while  her  companions  went  to 
"Blinkey's"  place  as  usual,  she  made  her  way  to  the 
house  of  her  slanderer.  When  she  entered,  the 
wretched  woman  came  toward  her,  staggering  and 
hiccoughing;  she  was  followed  by  a  negro  porter. 

"Beat  her  up,"  she  shouted,  "she's  trying  to  take 
my  man  from  me." 

The  negro  advanced  threateningly,  and  the  de 
fenceless  girl,  seeing  a  be-ribboned  dagger  hanging 
on  the  wall  above  her  head,  seized  it.  The  negro, 
in  a  sudden  frenzy,  threw  the  drunken  woman  upon 
the  weapon,  and  in  a  moment  she  fell  to  the  floor 
fatally  injured. 

"It  is  the  curse,"  said  Vere  de  Vere,  as  she  rushed 
from  the  house.  Her  white  dress  was  spattered 
with  blood,  and,  unconsciously,  she  held  the  dagger 
clutched  tightly  in  one  hand  while  she  ran  through 
the  streets  of  Colon  to  "Blinkey's"  place. 

"What  in  the  name  of  God  have  you  been  doin', 
kid?"  asked  "Blinkey,"  as  he  took  the  blood-stained 
dagger  from  her  hand. 

"It  is  the  curse,"  she  moaned;  and  "Blinkey" 
afterward  said  that  the  hurt  look  in  the  girl's  eyes 
made  him  feel  ill.  To  the  bewilderment  of  the  awe 
struck  drinkers,  Vere  de  Vere  took  her  violin  in  her 
blood-stained  hands  and  played  "Dixie."  Amid  a 


174  DROLL  STORIES 

tumult  of  applause  the  police  came  in  and  tore  her 
from  her  violin. 

"And  the  sins  of  the  parents  shall  be  visited  upon 
the  children,"  said  the  girl,  as  she  was  led  to  the 
street,  where  a  hooting  mob  stood  ready  to  offer 
her  indignities. 

So  the  last  descendant  of  a  great  cavalier  leads  the 
life  of  a  malefactor  among  negroes  in  the  peni 
tentiary  at  Panama,  and  the  curse  written  in  the 
life-blood  of  the  poor  gypsy  boy  has  had  its  fulfill 
ment. 


AN  AWFUL  MYSTERY. 


T 


HE  Fairfaxes  were  married  at  Trinity 
Church,  Boston,  and  the  Bishop  of 
Boston  performed  the  ceremony.  The 
Governor  of  Massachusetts  gave  the 
bride  away,  and  there  was  no  one 
present  at  the  affair  but  Mayflower 
descendants  and  a  few  noblemen  from 
Europe,  who  came  by  way  of  Washington  to  grace 
the  affair. 

The  Boston  newspapers  were  filled  to  overflowing 
with  accounts  of  the  wedding,  a  description  of  the 
presents  and  the  life  history  of  the  contracting 
parties.  They  told  in  detail  the  genealogy  of  both 
the  bride  and  groom. 

The  bride  was  an  heiress  in  a  moderate  way,  but 
the  groom,  who  was  an  F.  F.  V.,  was  poor,  so  that 
he  positively  refused  to  have  his  wife  touch  a  penny 
of  the  money  she  inherited.    "I  am  going  to  work," 
said  he  to  the  relatives  and  friends  of  the  bride.  '•{ 
have  secured  a  position  as  a  clerk  on  the  Panama 
Canal,  and  we  shall  sail  to-morrow." 
"Bravo!"  said  every  one. 
Mrs,  Fairfax  packed  her  costly  wedding  presents 


176  DROLL  STORIES 

away  and  stored  them  among  other  family  treasures 
in  the  attic  of  her  great-aunt  in  Cambridge,  and 
with  only  about  twelve  trunks  of  dainty  clothing 
and  household  things  she  departed  with  her  wedded 
love. 

She  was  a  graduate  of  Wellesley  College,  and  she 
had,  in  addition,  studied  domestic  economy,  so  she 
gave  out  for  publication  that  she  intended  doing  her 
own  housework  on  the  Canal  Zone. 

"A  sensible  and  model  woman,"  said  the  news 
papers.  Mothers  talked  about  the  model  Mrs.  Fair 
fax  to  their  daughters,  in  the  hope  that  it  would  in 
fluence  their  own  futures;  so,  you  see,  gentle  reader, 
what  a  heroine  Mrs.  Fairfax  was  in  her  native  city. 

Among  Mrs.  Fairfax's  wedding  presents  was  one 
of  such  a  kind  as  to  preclude  all  possibility  of  its 
being  left  at  home  in  the  attic  on  Brattle  street,  so 
a  ticket  was  purchased  for  it  and,  attached  to  a  silver 
chain,  this  present  was  led  by  Mrs.  Fairfax  to  the 
Pullman  palace  car  which  was  to  convey  the  newly- 
weds  to  New  York,  from  which  they  embarked  for 
Colon.  "Ferdinand  De  Lesseps"  was  the  name  of 
the  present.  It  was  the  finest  of  bull  terriers,  and 
Mrs.  Fairfax  was  almost  as  proud  of  it  as  she  was 
of  her  new  husband. 

On  the  ship  there  were,  from  the  Fairfax  point 
of  view,  a  strange  assortment  of  persons  who  did 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  177 

not  speak  the  English  language  as  it  was  spoken  in 
the  world  to  which  the  pair  belonged,  but  who, 
strange  to  say,  considered  themselves  as  good,  if 
not  better,  than  the  young  couple. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  both  had  led  a  most 
sheltered  life,  and  their  knowledge  of  common 
people  was  limited  to  persons  of  the  domestic 
servant  class  and  railroad  porters.  Being  just  out 
of  college,  they,  of  course,  knew  it  all,  and  did  not 
see  that  a  wider  experience  was  being  thrust  upon 
them.  They  were  very  exclusive,  and  before  the 
ship  arrived  at  port  they  had  shown  such  antipathy 
for  their  fellow-passengers  that  they  were  anything 
but 'popular. 

When  the  ship  docked  there  was  no  one  to  meet 
them,  although  Mr.  Fairfax  had  sent  a  wireless 
message  to  the  man  who  was  to  give  him  informa 
tion  regarding  his  new  position  in  some  office  or 
other  on  the  Zone. 

They  were,  therefore,  obliged  to  find  a  room  for 
themselves  on  a  dingy  street  in  Panama,  and  in  a 
house  where  many  negroes  lived.  No  one  appeared 
to  know  that  the  blooded  ones  had  arrived. 

After  many  weeks  of  disgusting  hardships, 
through  the  influence  of  Mr.  Fairfax's  boss,  a  vulgar, 
unlettered  man  who  had  been  a  simple  carpenter  in 
Boston,  the  young  couple  were  assigned  to  two  non- 


178  DROLL  STORIES 

housekeeping  rooms  in  one  corner  of  a  big  house 
occupied  by  a  Swedish  family  named  Svenska,  and, 
although  Mr.  Svenska  had  only  been  in  the  United 
States  long  enough  to  acquire  a  knowledge  of  rail 
roading  and  citizenship  papers,  his  privileges  and 
wages  far  exceeded  those  of  Mr.  Fairfax,  who  was 
a  descendant  of  a  cavalier  who  had  signed  the 
Declaration  of  Independence. 

It  was  the  proud  boast  of  the  Swedish  lady  that 
she  had  landed  at  Ellis  Island  in  her  bare  feet  five 
years  before,  and  when  Mrs.  Fairfax  was  a  sweet 
undergraduate,  shining  as  a  drawing-room  butterfly, 
Mrs.  Svenska  was  dusting  drawing-rooms. 

Now,  she  kept  a  hired  girl,  and  had  A  No.  1  furni 
ture,  while  Mrs.  Fairfax  had  the  sort  that  was 
specially  brought  to  the  Isthmus  for  clerks  who  re 
ceived  only  $100  a  month. 

The  Svenska  wash  was  always  hanging  on  the 
front  porch,  and  the  mangy  cur  dog  of  the  Svenskas 
was  ever  seeking  social  intercourse  with  the  blooded 
terrier  of  the  Fairfaxes. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Svenska  always  addressed  Mrs.  Fair 
fax  as  Mrs.  Penpusher — a  term  which  Mrs.  F.  could 
not  understand. 

Being  a  newcomer  and  unsophisticated,  Mrs.  Fair 
fax  decided  to  move  into  the  pretty  cottage  across 
the  way,  which  had  been  vacant  since  her  arrival. 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  179 

Accordingly,  one  day  she  started  for  the  Quarter 
master's  office  to  arrange  for  a  transfer.  The  Quar 
termaster,  however,  saw  her  coming,  and  very 
prudently  withdrew,  leaving  his  assistant  to  deal 
with  her.  This  gentleman,  after  hearing  Mrs.  Fair 
fax's  complaints  and  request  for  new  quarters,  in 
dignantly  replied:  "You  ain't  got  no  kick  coming. 
Why,  them  quarters  you  want  belong  to  two-hun- 
dred-and-fifty-dollar  men.  They  ain't  for  no  one- 
hundred-dollar  people." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?"  said  poor  Mrs.  Fair 
fax,  aghast.  "I  shall  see  that  you  are  reported  for 
your  insolence.  My  husband's  grandfather  was  a 
Chief  Justice  of  the  Supreme  Court." 

"That  don't  cut  no  ice  down  here,"  was  the  reply. 
"If  he  was  the  son  of  the  Colonel  himself,  he 
wouldn't  get  them  quarters  with  his  salary.  You're 
in  the  same  house  now  with  a  high-priced  man,  so 
I  don't  see  what  yer  kickin'  about." 

"It  is  evident  you  don't  know  what  you're  talking 
about,"  said  Mrs.  Fairfax  in  bewilderment.  "Why, 
the  people  who  occupy  the  other  part  of  the  house 
are  common — positively  vulgar.  I  must  get  an 
other  house ;  I  cannot  live  there.  I  shall  come  again 
when  the  Quartermaster  is  in." 

So,  without  even  a  good-afternoon,  she  hurried 
home  to  find  that  "Prosit,"  Svenska's  dog,  had 


180  DROLL  STORIES 

picked  a  quarrel  with  "Ferdinand  De  Lesseps,"  the 
Boston  terrier.  In  the  combat  the  plebian  "Prosit," 
having  no  fine  sense  of  honor  nor  any  regard  for  the 
rules  of  war,  had  treacherously  nipped  off  "Fer 
dinand's"  tail.  "Ferdinand,"  though  a  courageous 
beast,  could  not  bear  this  indignity,  so  had  left  the 
field  in  possession  of  his  vulgar  antagonist.  Then, 
too,  Mrs.  Svenska's  much-patched  clothing  was 
hanging,  as  usual,  on  the  porch.  There  was  an 
array  of  socks  of  huge  dimensions,  hickory  shirts 
and  piebald  khaki  trousers,  all  of  which  greatly 
offended  the  aesthetic  taste  of  the  dainty  Mrs.  Fair 
fax.  So  she  sought  Mrs.  Svenska,  and  requested 
that  lady  to  take  her  clothing  from  the  line  and  to 
chain  up  that  brute  "Prosit."  "I  beg  pardon,"  began 
Mrs.  Fairfax,  when  her  neighbor  appeared  at  the 
door,  "that  dog  of  yours  has  bitten  off  my  dog  'Fer 
dinand's'  tail." 

"Yell,"  answered  Mrs.  Svenska,  "dat  bane  a  gude 
yob.  My  Oscar,  he  bane  pay  two  dollar  gold  to  a 
faller  in  Sout'  Brooklyn  fer  trimmin'  up  our  own 
bulldog's  tail.  Such  dogs  ain't  in  style  mid  tails. 
Anyhow,  vy  you  not  stay  home  an'  mind  yer  dog? 
You  ain't  got  no  bizness  in  dese  quarters — your  man 
is  nuttin'  but  a  penpusher  mit  a  hundred  dollars,  and 
my  Oscar,  he  make  two  hundred,  an'  you  tink  you 
are  better  as  we  are." 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  181 

As  Mrs.  Svenska  finished  speaking  she  shook  her 
fist  in  Mrs.  Fairfax's  face,  which  belligerent  gesture 
so  frightened  the  latter  that  she  rushed  from  the 
door  and  fell  on  her  own  doorstep  in  a  dead  faint. 
This,  of  course,  attracted  the  attention  of  a  passer 
by,  and  soon  a  curious  crowd  assembled.  In  the 
crowd  there  chanced  to  be  one  of  that  slick  class  of 
individuals  known  as  "gumshoe"  men.  He  stood 
and  looked  on  and  said  nothing,  but  what  he  thought 
would  fill  a  big  book.  Mrs.  Svenska  did  not  appear 
to  make  an  explanation,  and  no  one  in  the  crowd 
made  a  move  to  help  the  unfortunate  woman.  The 
"gumshoe"  man  pulled  a  little  notebook  from  his  in 
side  pocket  and  jotted  down  the  following:  "Woman 
found  on  doorstep  of  House  No.  — • —  in  stupefied 
condition  *  *  * ." 

Now,  the  district  physician  put  in  an  appearance, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  Mrs.  Fairfax  had  revived  suf 
ficiently  to  sit  up  and  take  notice.  Her  first  thought 
was  of  her  poor  maimed  dog,  and  she  said,  with 
what  voice  she  could  muster:  "Oh,  where  did  he 
go?" 

"Who?"  said  the  "gumshoe"  man,  stepping  for 
ward  eagerly." 

"  'Ferdinand,'  "  weakly  replied  the  poor  woman, 
sinking  down  upon  the  step  and  bursting  into  sobs. 

The  physician,  with  a  sad  expression  on  his  face, 


182  DROLL  STORIES 

ordered  an  officer  to  escort  Mrs.  Fairfax  to  her 
rooms,  and  the  "gumshoe"  man  wrote :  "Drugged 
by  some  one  named  'Ferdinand' — a  lover,  prob 
ably — drinking  together.  Husband,  clerk — decent 
fellow.  Mystery  here — woman  needs  watching — 
got  no  friends  among  the  women — keeps  to  her 
self." 

Carefully  tucking  his  little  book  in  the  inside 
pocket,  near  his  heart  (for  there  is  nothing  dearer 
to  these  gentry  than  to  get  "something  on"  a  mar 
ried  woman),  he  joined  the  policeman  as  the  latter 
came  from  the  house,  shaking  his  head  mysteriously. 

All  this  had  its  due  effect  on  the  bystanders,  and 
each  one  went  on  his  or  her  way  with  an  idea  that 
Mrs.  Fairfax  had  some  awful  secret.  Each  man 
cautioned  his  wife  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  her, 
because  she  had  a  sweetheart  unknown  to  her  hus 
band — a  guy  named  "Ferdinand,"  an  Eyetalian  or  a 
dago  of  some  kind.  So,  as  a  matter  of  course,  the 
village  people  went  out  of  their  way  and  took 
special  pains  not  only  to  shun  Mrs.  Fairfax,  but  to 
let  her  see  that  she  was  being  shunned.  The  "gum 
shoe"  man's  notes  were  now  being  put  into  circula 
tion  through  the  medium  of  one  of  his  confidants, 
a  notorious  male  gossip  whose  calling  took  him 
almost  daily  to  every  village  on  the  line.  This  mode 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  183 

of  disseminating  slander  is  equalled,  perhaps,  only 
by  the  New  York  yellow  journals. 

Meantime  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fairfax  took  their  evening 
walks  together,  happily  unconscious  of  the  awful 
slander  that  threatened  to  engulf  them.  Mrs. 
Svenska  kept  "Prosit"  chained  up,  so  that  he  could 
not  play  with  the  Fairfax  dog,  fearing  that  people 
would  think  that  she  was  friendly  with  Mrs.  Fair 
fax.  The  Quartermaster's  assistant  held  his  head 
high,  in  a  way  which  plainly  said,  "Nothin'  doin'," 
when  the  lady  went  to  the  office  for  anything.  Even 
the  dusky  commissary  attendants  tossed  their  woolly 
heads  when  she  gave  them  an  order.  Then  a  rumor 
was  started  that  Mr.  Fairfax  was  not  married  to 
Mrs.  Fairfax.  This  story  gained  in  popularity  from 
day  to  day,  and  at  last  assumed  such  truthful  pro 
portions  that  an  agent  was  sent  out  to  investigate 
the  matter.  This  gentleman's  name  was  Gilhooly, 
a  descendant,  so  'tis  said,  of  one  of  the  royal  lines 
of  Erin.  He  was  a  native  of  Boston. 

He  started  his  investigation  with  the  knowledge 
that  he  was  to  hunt  down  a  cultivated  woman.  After 
a  couple  of  weeks  Gilhooly  sent  his  notebook  to 
the  great  tribunal  of  justice.  Were  you  so  fortunate 
as  to  get  a  glimpse  of  this  little  book  the  following 
might  attract  your  eye: 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fairfax  are  married,  all  right,  tho' 


184  DROLL  STORIES 

you'd  never  think  it  from  the  loving  way  they  live. 
When  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fairfax  are  at  home  they  hold 
hands  and  they  read  Shakespeare  and  Thomas  a 
Kempis.  When  Mr.  Fairfax  ain't  at  home  Mrs. 
Fairfax  does  her  housework,  except  the  washin'  and 
scrubbin',  which  ain't  in  her  line.  When  she  ain't 
doin'  her  housework  she's  paintin'  pictures  and 
writin'  for  college  papers.  The  lad  'Ferdinand'  is 
not  a  dago,  at  all,  but  an  ugly  brute  of  a  Boston 
bull  terrier  with  a  pedigree.  He  loves  his  mistress, 
and  it  was  on  account  of  Svenska's  'mutt'  havin' 
chewed  off  his  tail  that  the  ruction  started.  Let 
them  that  are  without  fault  throw  the  first  stone. 
So,  I  guess  it  is  up  to  the  Colonel  himself  to  set 
matters  right." 


A   NIGHT  OFF. 


I 


SEE  by  the  papers  that  the  govern 
ment  of  the  'Land  of  the  free  and 
home  of  the  brave'  has  made  another 
law.  It  is  that  no  contract  be  given 
for  government  work  to  any  firm  that 
compels  its  employes  to  work  more 
than  eight  hours  a  day,  an'  the  gov 
ernment  has  turned  down  a  shipbuildin'  firm's  bid 
on  the  two  new  battleships  because  the  firm  didn't 
have  the  eight-hour  law  in  force  in  its  shipyard. 
Now,  wouldn't  that  jar  you,  when  right  here  on 
this  government  job  there's  five  hundred  men  that 
work  from  twelve  to.  sixteen  hours  a  day  an'  never 
get  a  cent  of  overtime  pay,  not  even  a  'thank 
you?' 

"Who  are  the  twelve-  and  sixteen-hour  men  ?  We 
are.  I'm  one  of  'em.  Am  I  a  steam-shovel  man? 
No;  not  on  your  life.  If  I  was  I'd  be  curlin'  my 
mustache  an'  polishin'  my  finger-nails  right  now. 
But,  instead  of  that,  I'm  hustlin'  into  the  mess  hall 
to  swallow  a  bite  of  cold  grub  before  they  shut  the 
doors  for  the  night.  It's  now  three  hours  after 
knockin'-off  time.  I'm  a  marine  engineer,  an'  I've 


186  DROLL  STORIES 

seen  as  much  of  this  terrestrial  globe  as  any  man  of 
my  age  on  this  job,  an'  I  can  say  with  conviction 
that  this  is  the  blamedest  job  for  workin'  overtime 
that  I  ever  struck,  or  ever  expect  to  strike. 

"You  say  that  you  thought  we  all  worked  eight 
hours  down  here.  Not  the  floating  equipment,  no, 
m'am;  but,  say!  a  more  intelligent  or  finer  bunch 
of  fellows  never  struck  the  Isthmus  than  they  are. 
Why,  some  of  'em  are  veterans  of  the  Spanish- 
American  War.  They  done  the  work  that  got  the 
glory  for  Dewey  an'  that  beauty  Hobson,  when  the 
petted  darlin's  of  the  Commission — the  steam- 
shovel  men,  the  shop  guys  and  the  like — were 
milkin'  cows  an'  feedin'  hens  down  on  the  farm. 
But,  wait,  we'll  come  in  handy  again  some  day, 
maybe  right  here,  where  we're  sweatin'  away  from 
four  to  six  hours  a  day  for  nothin'.  Here  in  Balboa 
we  ain't  got  no  more  gumption  than  a  bunch  of 
dog-robbers.  Why,  in  Cristobal,  they  have  formed 
an  association  to  fight  for  back  pay  for  overtime 
since  the  Canal  started,  an'  for  an  eight-hour  day. 

"A  committee  of  ten  of  'the  boys'  waited  upon  a 
bunch  of  hayseeds  that  were  down  here  lookin' 
around  an'  botherin'  the  Colonel.  Twas  last  fall  an' 
they  stopped  at  the  Tivoli.  The.  Colonel  attended  the 
meetin'  himself,  an'  showed  the  fellers  that  he  was 
with  them  for  a  square  deal.  He's  always  on  deck 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  187 

when  there's  need  of  justice,  the  Colonel  is.  Well, 
anyhow,  old  Uncle  Joe  was  in  the  gang  from  the 
U.  S.  A.,  smilin'  from  ear  to  ear  an'  smokin'  a  big 
cigar  that  made  him  look  top  heavy.  He  told  'the 
boys'  that  he  was  feelin'  fine;  that  he  was  gittin'  to 
be  a  bit  overfed,  an'  that  he  was  just  pinin'  to  do 
something  for  the  floating  equipment  of  the  Canal 
Commission;  but  when  a  couple  of  'the  boys'  told 
him  that  they  had  nearly  $9,000  for  back  pay 
comin'  to  'em  his  face  froze,  the  cigar  fell  from  his 
lips  and'  he  looked  as  if  he  was  goin'  to  drop  dead. 
I  was  there  lookin'  on  an'  takin'  it  all  in. 

"I  attended  the  association  supper  at  Cristobal 
after  that,  an',  say!  it  was  some  feast.  It  looked 
more  like  a  meetin'  of  the  floating  equipment  of  the 
New  York  Yacht  Club  than  it  did  of  the  overworked 
and  underpaid  live  ones  of  the  Isthmian  Canal  Com 
mission.  Every  man  was  dressed  to  kill  in  correct 
evening  togs  except  me,  but,  of  course,  I  didn't 
count,  bein'  from  Balboa,  an'  not  bein'  a  member, 
nohow.  Anyway,  I  enjoyed  myself  an'  drunk  it  all 
in.  Did  I  get  (Jrunk?  Yes,  I  think  I  did  get  drunk. 
A  saint  would  have  got  drunk  there.  The  first  sight 
that  met  the  eye  on  entering  the  hall  was — -what  do 
you  think?  Twelve  barrels  of  beer  all  packed  in 
ice  an'  ready  to  quench  thirst.  There  was  all  kinds 
of  whiskies  and  wines,  and  even  champagne. 


188  DROLL  STOEIES 

"How  did  they  get  away  to  get  to  the  supper? 
Oh,  they  just  struck.  'Where  are  you  fellers  goin' 
to?'  said  the  boss  that  night,  when  the  last  of  the 
gang  was  walkin'  off  the  dock  to  go  home  an'  dress. 
'We  are  goin'  to  get  drunk,'  spoke  up  old  Cap. 
Bartin,  who  isn't  so  old,  but  is  as  sassy  as  they 
make  'em.  'Get  drunk?'  said  the  boss,  in  amaze 
ment;  'well,  you've  got  your  nerve  with  you.'  'You 
bet,'  replied  the  Captin;  'if  I  didn't  have  consider 
able  nerve  I  wouldn't  have  been  able  to  keep  up 
an'  work  all  of  this  overtime.  Me  an'  the  boys,' 
said  he,  'need  to  wet  our  whistles  this  blessed  Sun 
day  night,  after  workin'  from  twelve  to  eighteen 
hours  a  day  for  the  past  week.'  'You  can't  get  off 
now,'  said  the  boss,  'because  there's  that  derelict 
out  there  that's  got  to  be  attended  to.'  'I  ain't  re 
sponsible  for  the  derelict,'  retorted  the  Captain; 
'why  don't  you  get  your  launch  an'  go  out  an'  hang 
a  dinner  bell  on  it,  or  else  get  a  couple  of  niggers 
to  rig  up  a  jury  mast  for  it  ?  The  boys  an'  me  have 
an  important  engagement,'  an'  he  winked  at  his 
friends  in  a  foxy  way.  'I'm  through  with  the  briny 
deep  until  Monday  mornin'.'  'You'll  lose  your  job 
for  this,'  said  the  boss,  tryin'  to  keep  a  straight  face. 
'Hurrah!'  said  Captin  Bartin,  'back  to  the  Bowery 
for  mine.  There's  a  few  boats  sailin'  in  and  out 
around  old  Liberty.  Do  you  know  where  Liberty 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  189 

is?  We  have  almost  forgot,  we  get  so  little  of  it 
in  this  outfit.'  After  dancin'  a  few  steps  of  the 
'Sailors'  Hornpipe'  he  marches  off  the  dock,  fol 
lowed  by  the  fellows,  all  of  them  singin',  'We  Won't 
Go  Home  Till  MorninV 

"Just  after  the  boys  had  gone,  a  time  inspector 
hove  into  sight  an'  the  boss  said  to  him,  in  that 
dry  way  of  his,  There  ain't  nothin'  for  you  to  do 
to-night.  The  bunch  has  quit,  and'  I  don't  blame 
'em.  They're  havin'  a  banquet.'  'You  don't  say/ 
said  the  inspector.  'Sure,'  said  the  boss,  'an'  'tis 
kind  of  tough  on  me.  I've  got  to  go  out  to  that 
derelict  an'  hang  a  scarecrow  on  it  to  keep  the  mos 
quitoes  from  breedin'  in  it.  I'm  blamed  if  I  know 
what  else  to  do  with  the  darned  thing.'  'Nor  I,' 
says  the  time  inspector.  'I  been  on  a  farm  in  Con 
necticut  all  my  life,  an'  it  makes  me  sicker'n  a  dog 
to  go  out  in  that  launch  to  take  the  men's  time. 
This  ain't  no  job  for  me,  nohow.  I'  guess  I'll  write 
to  Ma  an'  tell  her  to  see  our  Congressman,  an'  tell 
him  to  have  me  transferred  to  some  inland  place  out 
of  sight  an'  smell  of  this  blamed  old  ocean.'  'Yes,' 
said  the  boss,  dryly,  'you're  too  good  a  farmer  to 
be  fussin'  about  this  dock.  Suppose,'  he  went  on, 
'we  go  over  to  Buildin'  Number  One  an'  watch  the 
boys  gittin'  drunk.'  'I'm  on/  said  the  inspector, 
without  hesitancy.  'You  may/  said  he,  'meet  one 


190  DROLL  STORIES 

of  'em  that's  half  soused  an'  good-natured,  that  'ud 
go  out  in  the  launch  with  you  an'  show  you  what 
to  do  with  that  machine  you  have  jest  been  talkin' 
about.'  'Well,  say,  you  are  a  farmer  from  Jones's 
woods,'  replied  the  boss,  laughin',  an'  walkin'  off 
the  dock. 

"Well,  sir,  I  walked  off  that  dock  and  follered 
'em,  for  I  had  been  there  takin'  it  all  in.  When  we 
got  to  that  hall,  say !  of  all  the  fun  and  good  fellow 
ship  !  There  was  Captin  Bartin  dancin'  the  Highlan' 
Fling  to  the  tune  of  'Lass  of  Killiecrankie.'  Every 
one  was  feelin'  good,  an'  1  was  welcomed  as  heartily 
as  the  boss  an'  the  inspector,  though  they  didn't 
know  any  of  us  from  Adam,  they  were  so  drunk. 
But,  anyhow,  I  soon  felt  at  home,  an'  it  seemed  as 
if  I  had  known  the  bunch  all  my  life.  The  place 
was  decorated  with  palms  an'  plants  an'  flags,  an' 
the  supper  tables  showed  up  fine,  with  cut  glass  an' 
silver  from  Major  Falstaff's  own  house  an'  the 
houses  of  the  married  members,  for  the  committee 
said  they  wouldn't  stand  for  three-pronged  forks 
an'  black-handled  knives  from  the  I.  C.  C.  mess 
hall  (they  call  it  an  hotel  over  there),  not  at  that 
spread. 

"Well,  I  met  an  old  friend,  an'  he  pointed  out 
the  different  ones  that  were  the  leaders.  A  merry- 
lookin'  little  devil  got  up  to  make  a  speech,  an',  say ! 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  191 

he  sure  could  talk.  Bryan,  as  an  orator,  couldn't 
hold  a  candle  to  him.  'Who's  the  orator?'  I  asked. 
'He's  one  of  the  fleet,'  said  my  friend.  'He's  Ger 
man,  but  an  American  citizen.'  'He's  away  up  on 
English,'  said  I.  'Yes,'  said  he  'Shorty  is  a  bright 
fellow,  a  graduate  of  Heidelberg,  an'  his  brother  is 
a  professor  there  right  now.'  'Why,'  I  spoke  up, 
'this  is  not  only  a  dredgin'  outfit  you  have  here,  but 
'tis  a  floatin'  university  as  well.'  He  was  tickled  to 
death  at  this,  an'  said,  'We  fellows  ain't  nobody's 
fools  over  here.  Do  you  see  that  good-lookin',  in- 
offensive-appearin'  chap  over  there?'  he  asked, 
pointin'  toward  a  youngster  that  sure  did  look  in 
offensive.  'Yes,'  I  says,  'who  is  he?'  'He's  the  real 
thing  in  the  manly  art  of  boxin','  was  the  reply. 
'He  could  lick  any  man  in  this  hall  to-night.  The 
boys  call  him  the  Prince.'  'He  looks  like  a  kid,' 
I  says.  'We  call  him  that,  too,'  said  he.  The  feller 
he's  talkin'  to  is  a  Danish  nobleman,  with  an  Eye- 
talian  name;  he  was  once  an  officer  in  the  Danish 
Navy.'  'By  gum!'  said  I,  'we  guys  at  Balboa  never'll 
get  in  on  this  association.  We  ain't  grand  enough.' 
"At  this  point  the  voice  of  the  orator  rang  out 
loud  and  clear.  'You  men  of  the  floatin'  equipment 
are  just  as  important  to  the  great  work  of  buildin' 
this  Canal  as  those  whose  professions  are  of  a  higher 
order  an'  whose  education  is  of  the  higher  criticism. 


192  DROLL  8TORIES 

English,  German,  Danish  and  Scotch  by  descent, 
your  veins  reek  with  the  wholesome  blood  of  the 
Viking.'  Then  Captin  Barton  yelled,  'Come  along, 
all  ye  Irish  that  ain't  in  on  that  Viking  blood,  an' 
we'll  hit  up  the  whiskey.'  Then  there  were  cheers, 
an'  maybe  we  didn't!  Well,  we  ate  an'  we  drank, 
an'  told  stories;  some  of  'em  was  true  an'  some  of 
'em  darned  lies,  but  we  all  felt  good  an'  noble  an' 
brave,  an'  along  toward  mornin'  an  Eyetalian  Prince 
came  into  take  the  photograph  of  the  bunch.  I  was 
in  it,  though  I  hadn't  ought  to  be,  seein'  I  belong 
in  Balboa,  where  we  ain't  got  more  gumption  than 
a  lot  of  dog-robbers,  because  we're  afraid  of  Tarn 
O'Shanter,  as  canny  a  Scot  as  ever  sailed  out  of 
Glasgow. 

"1  been  told  since  that  when  the  gang  showed  up 
on  the  dock  Monday  mornin'  to  go  to  work  the  boss 
was  fit  to  be  tied.  'Why  didn't  you  fellers  show 
up  yesterday?'  said  he.  There  was  no  response, 
but  all  grinned  kind  of  sheepish.  'And  you,'  he  said 
to  Captin  Bartin,  'you  didn't  show  up  yesterday. 
Were  you  sick?  The  Captin  took  three  steps  to 
the  right  an'  three  steps  to  the  left,  an'  broke  down 
two  or  three  steps  of  the  'Sailors'  Hornpipe.'  Then 
he  said  in  the  boss'  ear,  'I  was  drunk.'  'Drunk?' 
said  the  boss,  in  amazement.  'Well,  say!  you've 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  193 

an  awful  nerve.  Give  me  your  doctor's  certificate,' 
he  added,  with  a  sigh.  'Shure,  you  wouldn't  have 
me  compound  a  felony  like  that,  would  you?'  said 
the  Captin.  Then  the  boss  coughed  kind  of  funny 
and  said,  'Get  aboard  an'  stop  chewin'  the  rag.' 

"An'  me.  I  got  back  to  Balboa  half  an  hour  too 
late  to  get  on  the  job,  and,  thinks  I,  there's  other 
jobs  in  the  universe,  so  I'm  goin'  to  take  a  day  off 
an'  get  some  rest.  An'  maybe  I  got  the  rest.  Not 
on  your  life,  for  old  Tarn,  O'Shanter  was  on  the 
job  lookin'  me  up.  He  gumshoed  up  to  my  room, 
an'  hearin'  me  snorin,'  yelled  out,  'Hoot,  mon,  get 
ye  up  and  pit  on  yer  does  an'  come  down  on  the 
job  the  noo.'  I  was  savage.  'To  h — 1  with  the  job,' 
I  says,  'I'm  sick.'  'Dinna  ye  fash  wid  yer  clatter, 
or  I'll  pit  me  fist  in  yer  eye,'  says  he.  Well,  I  got 
up  an'  dressed  an'  went  on  the  dredge,  an'  I'm  on  it 
yet.  Tarn  O'Shanter  likes  me  about  as  well  as  the 
devil  likes  holy  water,  but  I  don't  care  a  rap  for  that 
old  kilt,  for  he's  one  Scot  with  a  yellow  streak 
runnin'  right  through  him  from  the  top  of  his  head 
to  the  top  of  his  toes.  He  says  there  ain't  talent 
enough  in  the  U.  S.  A.  to  hold  down  his  job,  an' 
that's  why  he  got  it.  It  must  be  so ;  he  ain't  got  no 
citizenship  papers;  if  he  has,  they  ain't  bona  fidy. 
See !  Well,  I'll  have  to  be  gittin  back  to  the  dock, 


194  DROLL  STORIES 

or  he'll  be  around  peepin'  an'  reportin'  that  I  have 
an  affinity.  So  long,  lady;  I'm  glad  to  have  met 
you.  The  boys  here  in  Balboa  are  all  right,  only 
they're  a  little  short  on  gumption,  that's  all." 


THE  DISTRICT  QUARTERMASTERS. 


F  the  vast  number  of  men  employed  on 
the  Isthmus  in  an  official  way,  no  men 
have  quite  as  much  to  endure  as  the 
District  Quartermasters.  They  are  the 
men  who  keep  their  hands  on  the  pulse 
of  things.  They  know  what's  what 
and  who's  who,  regardless  of  the  fact 
that  the  grandson  of  a  Chief  Justice  of  the  United 
States  takes  second  place  in  precedence  to  some 
horny-handed  immigrant  who,  a  few  years  ago, 
landed  at  Ellis  Island.  If  you  want  to  see  human 
nature  in  its  most  primitive  and  unadorned  vul 
garity,  just  take  a  look  in  at  the  District  Quarter 
master's  office  any  morning,  or  take  a  back  seat  and 
look  on.  Mrs.  Jones  has  three  children  and  she 
would  like  to  move  away  from  House  642  into  the 
house  across  the  way,  because  Mrs.  Rickey  has  an 
affinity  and  she  doesn't  want  that  example  for  her 
children. 

"The  house  across  from  you  is  assigned,"  says 
the  Quartermaster. 

"But  what  difference  is  that?    The  people  that 


196  DROLL  STORIES 

you  gave  it  to  can  get  assigned  to  ours,"  Mrs.  Jones 
answers. 

"We  can't  do  that  now,"  says  the  Q.  M.  "The 
people  wouldn't  like  it." 

"All  right.    I'll  see  the  Colonel." 

So  Mrs.  Jones  goes  out,  and  in  comes  Mr.  Smith. 
You  can  tell  that  he  is  important,  for  his  trappings 
are  the  most  up-to-date  mode,  a  la  Canal  Zone.  He 
wants  to  move  into  class  quarters.  His  salary  is 
two  dollars  and  eighty  cents  more  than  Higam's, 
and  Mrs.  Higam  laughed  at  Mrs.  Smith  this  morn 
ing  and  said,  as  she  rolled  her  eyes,  "You're  not 
moving,  I  see." 

"That  woman  ain't  goin'  to  lord  it  over  my  wife, 
let  me  tell  you.  I'm  sick  to  death  of  this  business 
of  favoritism,  an'  my  wife'll  have  it  fixed  up  this 
afternoon,"  says  Smith.  After  which  speech  he 
goes  out,  caressing  that  mounted  shark's  tooth. 

The  Quartermaster  sighs  and  looks  resigned. 

Now  comes  in  a  sunbeam  of  radiance,  dressed  in 
coolie  lace  and  all  the  other  coolie  adornment.  The 
Quartermaster  looks  attentive. 

"Prout,"  she  begins,  exactly  in  a  Mrs.  Princely 
Belmont  tone,  "I  want  my  kitchen  painted.  To 
morrow  morning  they  will  start  working  at  it." 

"It  was  painted  last  winter,"  says  the  Quarter 
master,  getting  red  in  the  face,  and  you  see  that  he 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  197 

is  stung  by  the  impudent  tone  of  the  woman's  voice. 

"Well,  I  want  it  done  again,  an'  I  don't  want  to 
have  to  *come  here  another  time  to  talk  about  it. 
I'm  not  used  to  dirt." 

"You  can  be  as  clean  as  you  like,  but  you  can't 
get  that  done  again  this  year." 

"Then  I  want  a  married  dresser."  The  one  I  have 
is  a  bachelor  one." 

"How  is  that?"  gasps  the  Quartermaster. 
"Haven't  you  been  here  two  years?  Why  haven't 
you  told  us  before?  Melbourne,"  he  calls,  and  a 
shiny  black  gentleman  appears  promptly.  "Why 
hasn't  this  lady  been  given  a  married  dresser,  when 
single  ones  are  so  scarce?  She  says  she  has  only  a 
single  one.  Didn't  I  tell  you  last  week  to  round  up 
all  the  single  dressers  and  give  the  married  folks 
married  ones?" 

"She  didn't  have  room  for  the  married  one,  so 
she  said,  sir,"  said  Melbourne.  "She's  got  three  that 
she  brought  from  the  States  with  her,  an'  she  said 
she  is  tryin'  to  sell  'em." 

"Take  a  married  dresser  to  that  lady's  house  to 
morrow  morning  at  8  o'clock.  Good  morning, 
madam." 

"I  want  a  new  garbage  can,  a  larger  ice  chest  and 
two  old  rockers  taken  away  and  new  ones  put  in 
their  place." 


198  DUOLL  STORIES 

"It  will  be  impossible  to  make  all  those  changes, 
rrjadam.  You  will  have  to  keep  the  rockers  until 
later.  We  are  short  on  rockers." 

"Short  on  rockers?"  echoes  the  coolie-clad  lady, 
"and  you  gave  that  thing  next  door  two  rockers, 
but  I'm  of  better  family  than  she  is,  and  I  have  to 
go  without  rockers." 

"Her  rockers  were  broken,"  says  the  Q.  M. 

"You're  a  liar,"  says  the  coolie-clad  lady. 

At  this  the  Quartermaster  makes  a  hasty  retreat 
and  the  coolie-clad  lady  leaves  to  take  the  next  train 
to  Culebra.  . 

Next  comes  a  quiet  little  lady  with  a  soft  voice 
and  engaging  manners,  who  says  that  she  would 
like  to  move  into  the  pretty  cottage  across  the  street 
from  her  house.  The  Quartermaster  has  vanished 
with  a  hurt  heart,  and  his  assistant  has  taken  his 
place,  with  a  keen  edge  on  for  business  for  crisp 
females.  "What's  the  trouble?"  he  asks,  with  a 
terrifying  squint  in  his  eye. 

"Oh,  my  gracious!  It  will  be  impossible  for  me 
to  live  in  the  house  with  my  neighbors." 

"Why,  what's  the  matter  with  'em?" 

"They  are  simply  impossible.  1  cannot  endure 
them.  The  woman  hangs  her  clothes  on  the  front 
porch  to  dry,  and  I  feel  horribly  ashamed  whenever 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  199 

my  friends  come;  and  it  is  extremely  disagreeable 
to  walk  in  and  out  under  them." 

"Well,"  says  the  assistant,  "the  lady  must  hang 
her  clothes  where  they'll  dry.  Is  that  all?" 

"The  woman  is  horribly  insulting,  and  refers  to 
me  as  Mrs.  Penpusher.  I  shall  have  to  move  into 
the  little  cottage,  I  fear." 

"That's  a  good,  cool  house  that  you're  in,  and 
them  people  are  first  class." 

"Oh,  you  are  mistaken;  they  are  Swedish  peas 
ants.  It  is  a  mistake  that  we  were  ever  put  into 
the  house  with  such  people.  My  husband's  father 
is  a  Supreme  Court  Judge." 

"That  don't  cut  no  ice  down  here;  if  he  was  the 
son  of  the  Colonel  himself  he  couldn't  get  them 
quarters  with  his  salary.  Why,  them  is  $225  quar 
ters,  and  your  husband  is  only  a  penpusher,  like 
myself,  an'  only  gettin'  $100  per,  with  a  small  ice 
chest  an'  wooden-seated  chairs  in  the  dinin'  room. 
The  quarters  you're  after  is  class  quarters." 

"What  class,  for  pity  sake?"  asks  the  lady. 

"Class  of  Canal  Zone,  of  course,"  grinned  the 
assistant,  "an'  that's  sayin'  something.  Ferinstance, 
the  people  you're  tryin'  to  get  away  from  are  class, 
with  a  big  C.  He  gits  $250  per,  an'  he  ought  to 
have  that  house  to  himself,  anyway." 

The  little  woman,  struggling  to  keep  back  her 


200  DROLL  STORIES 

tears,  left  the  place,  after  having  bowed  gracefully 
to  the  assistant. 

"There,"  said  that  gentleman,  "that's  what  I  call 
the  cream  de  la  cream  of  gentility,  an'  she's  stuck  in 
a  house  with  a  bunch  of  rough  devils  that  ain't  got 
no  use  for  her.  Say,  ain't  this  class  quarter  business 
the  limit,  though  ?  That  lady  is  a  graduate  of  Yasser 
College,  an'  the  one  she's  in  with  is  a  squarehead. 
She  used  to  be  a  porteress  in  a  Kansas  City  hotel. 
She  has  a  voice  on  her  like  the  sound  of  the  drunk 
special,  and  when  she  wants  anything  she  cusses  us 
out  for  fair.  I  have  her  measured  to  an  inch,  and 
I  sure  feel  sorry  for  that  little  lady  that  just  went 
out.  But  what  can  we  do?" 

Now,  there  enters  class,  if  there  ever  was  class 
in  this  world.  A  woman  clad  in  old  rose  satin,  over 
which  is  draped  black  Spanish  lace.  Her  hat  and 
accessories  are  perfect.  She  is  the  wife  of  a  car 
penter  and  is  about  fifty  years  old.  She  tells  in  a 
calm,  even  voice  that  she  wishes  to  move  into  class 
quarters,  and  that  a  woman  whom  she  knows  and 
likes  wants  the  same  house.  They  have  decided  to  see 
the  Quartermaster,  and,  as  one  is  as  much  entitled 
to  the  house  as  the  other,  they'll  leave  it  to  the 
Quartermaster  to  decide. 

"He  ain't  goin'  to  decide  any  more  things  to-day; 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  201 

he's  fed  up  on  quarters.  I  guess  you  folks  had  better 
go  to  Culebra.  Where's  the  other  one?" 

"She's  coming  now,"  said  the  woman,  whereupon 
there  burst  upon  our  vision  the  most  Juno-like 
woman  that  we  had  ever  seen.  Tall  and  stately  was 
she,  with  a  figure  that  'ud  put  Lillian  Russell  in  the 
shade,  with  a  pair  of  eyes  that  were  not  made  for 
the  good  of  the  souls  of  Quartermasters'  assistants, 
either. 

"I  mean  to  get  that  house,"  said  she,  smiling,  and 
showing  a  set  of  beautiful  white  teeth.  "My  hus 
band  was  on  the  Isthmus  seven  days  before  hers," 
said  the  Juno. 

"He  was  not!"  said  the  lace  and  roses. 

"I  know  better!"  said  Juno,  hotly.  "There's 
only  two  of  you,  and  a  Type  14  house  is  good 
enough  for  you;  but  we  have  got  to  have  a  larger 
one,  because  our  family  is  larger." 

"Well,  there,  don't  fight  about  it,"  said  the  Quar 
termaster's  assistant.  "Go  to  Culebra,  and  it'll  be 
settled  all  right  by  the  Colonel." 

"That's  what  I'm  going  to  do,"  said  Juno.  "This 
ain't  no  place  to  get  justice." 

"Well,  you  will  have  to  hurry,"  said  the  assistant, 
looking  at  his  watch.  "Better  run  now;  the  train 
is  coming." 


202  DROLL  STORIES 

Both  women  ran,  and  snarled  at  each  other  as 
they  reached  the  street. 

"The  tall  one'll  get  the  house,  if  I  know  human 
nature,"  said  the  assistant.  "And,  say!  ain't  she 
the  grandest  thing  that  ever  came  down  the  pike !" 

The  Quartermaster  came  in,  flustered,  and  said, 
as  he  dropped  into  his  chair,  Those  damned  class 
quarters  will  be  the  death  of  us  all.  Brannigan, 
you'll  have  to  stay  here  to-morrow  and  face  the 

bunch.    I'm  all  in." 

*      *      * 

Q.  M.  Branigan  was  luxuriously  smoking  what, 
from  its  aroma,  might  be  called  a  good  cigar;  his 
office  chair  was  tilted  backward  and  his  neat  white 
canvas  shoes  were  resting  on  the  orderly  desk.  He 
wore  a  flaring  red  necktie,  and  that  was  the  only 
note  not  in  harmony  with  the  peace  prevailing  in 
that  calm,  cool  emporium.  A  look  over  his 
shoulder  revealed  the  fact  that  he  was  reading  "Bar 
rack  Room  Ballads."  It  was  twenty  minutes  before 
the  time  for  opening.  But  a  timid  knock  on  the 
door,  which  was  repeated  many  times,  caused  Mr. 
Branigan  to  frown  and  call  out  in  a  rather  gruff 
tone,  "What  do  you  want?" 

"To  come  in,  of  course,"  said  a  sweet  voice 
through  the  keyhole.  At  this,  Q.  M.  B.  dropped  the 
book  and  sprang  to  his  feet,  saying  as  he  did  so, 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  203 

with  the  sweetest  smile  imaginable,  "Say,  'tis  her, 
all  right,  and  this  is  where  I  get  it  put  all  over  me 
for  fair."  He  smoothed  his  hair,  pulled  down  his 
cuffs  and,  straightening  his  necktie,  he  hastily 
brushed  the  wrinkles  out  of  his  trousers.  Then,  and 
not  until  then,  did  he  open  the  door.  The  audience 
felt  a  bit  flustered,  too,  for  who  could  enter  that  office 
but  the  Juno? 

"Good  morning,"  said  she,  with  a  merry  flash  of 
her  fine  eyes  and  a  brilliant  smile. 

"Good  morning,"  said  Q.  M.  B.  with  a  short 
cough. 

"Did  they  telephone  from  Culebra  that  I  was  to 
be  moved  to-day?" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Q.  M.  B.  "They  telephoned 
that  I  was  to  put  you  into  the  most  comfortable 
quarters  in  town." 

"Class  quarters,  I  suppose?" 

"Well,  no;  'er  not  now,  but  later  you'll  get  'em 
all  right,  if  I'm  on  the  job." 

"But  at  Culebra  they  said  I  was  to  get  them," 
stormed  the  Juno,  getting  very  red  in  the  face. 

"Well,  there,  don't  go  to  gettin'  fussy  about  it. 
You  ain't  the  only  one  that's  got  to  put  up  with  a 
house  that  ain't  good  enough;  but,  I'll  tell  you 
what :  you  won't  have  to  go  without  it  long,  for  I'll 
see  to  that." 


204  DROLL  STORIES 

"Oh,  shucks!"  said  the  Juno  disgustedly,  "you're 
a  big  bluff,  that's  what  you  are." 

"My  Gawd !  I'm  a  bluff,  am  I  ?"  exclaimed  Q.  M. 
Branigan,  getting  red  in  the  face.  "Well,  say,  the 
way  I've  worked  for  you  about  that  class  house  is 
a  caution." 

"You  can't  bluff  me;  I'm  on  to  you,"  answered 
the  Juno,  drawing  on  her  gloves. 


OLD  PANAMA'S  RENAISSANCE. 


LD  Panama  is  again  becoming  a  scene 

Oof  romance.  Nothing  can  be  more 
delightful  than  an  automobile  trip  by 
moonlight  to  the  scene  of  Morgan's 
piratical  invasion.  When  your  ma 
chine  rounds  the  corner  on  the  road 
to  the  ocean  a  warm  wave  is  wafted 
to  you  on  the  breezes  from  the  seawall.  You  take 
your  fan  and  you  fan  and  you  fan  yourself  vigor 
ously,  but,  as  you  draw  nearer,  the  air  becomes  still 
warmer.  The  ruins  stare  you  in  the  face,  and  your 
mind  wanders  back  to  the  days  when  black-eyed 
senoritas  strolled  upon  the  bridge  and  through  the 
lanes  and  byways,  now  overgrown  with  jungle 
weeds.  You  think  to  yourself,  as  the  machine 
speeds  on,  how  deserted  the  lovely  spot  is  in  the 
weird  moonlight.  You  are  nearing  the  beach,  and, 
oh!  the  warmth,  the  delightful  breeze,  the  moon 
light,  the  odor  of  tropical  lilies,  and  then  your  eyes 
behold  a  scene  that  makes  you  feel  young  again. 
Hand  in  hand,  strolling  in  pairs,  you  behold  lovers 
in  the  ecstacy  of  abandonment  on  the  white  sands. 
Lovers  are  kissing  each  other,  right  under  your 


206  DROLL  STORIES 

middle-aged  eyes.  Lovers  are  sitting  on  the  sands 
holding  hands,  cheek  to  cheek,  without  any  apparent 
fear  of  criticism. 

"There's  an  automobile  full  of  old  folks,"  says 
a  masculine  voice,  "so  I  guess  I'd  better  let  go  of 
your  hand." 

"Who  cares?"  says  the  sweet  voice  of  a  girl. 
"We're  not  in  Panama  now.  Let  the  old  frumps 
stare." 

There  is  a  merry  hum  of  voices,  and  a  clinking 
of  glasses  under  the  rustic  shed.  Two  men  are  busy 
making  sandwiches,  two  others  are  busy  serving 
cool  drinks,  the  young  people,  and  some  that  are 
not  so  awfully  young,  wander  to  and  fro,  arms  en 
twined,  or  else  they  sit  in  the  shadow  of  a  rock  and 
spoon.  Dapper  couples,  black,  white  and  brown, 
meander  around  in  that  warm,  affectionate  at 
mosphere  without  getting  in  the  way  of  one  an 
other,  because  each  couple  is  so  absorbed  in  itself 
that  it  has  no  eyes  for  its  neighbor.  You  look  on 
approvingly,  even  though  you  are  old,  almost  grey, 
and  unloved.  You  forget  your  neighbors,  who  are 
like  yourself,  up  in  years  and  alone. 

There  are  men  swearing  under  their  breath  and 
mending  tires  that  have  been  punctured  on  the  rocky, 
unfinished  roads  of  the  Zone.  There  are  voices 
singing  "Casey  Jones."  There  are  voices  singing 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  207 

"I  Love  You,  I  Love  You,  I  Love  You."  There  are 
voices  singing  "In  the  gloaming,  oh,  my  darling, 
when  the  lights  are  dim  and  low,"  and  this  song  of 
songs  takes  you  back  to  a  sea  beach  that  is  far  away, 
to  where  "rosy  dreams  were  dreamed  when  every 
thing  was  what  it  seemed  and  every  dream  came 
true." 

You  hate  to  tear  yourself  away,  but  it  is  almost 
midnight  and  the  machine  is  hired  by  the  hour.  So 
you  step  in  and  are  whirled  back  to  Panama,  where 
the  atmosphere  is  cooler,  the  scenes  far  less 
romantic,  and  where  you  are  rudely  awakened  from 
your  balmy  dream  in  a  sudden  realization  of  fast- 
fleeting  time  by  the  price  the  garage  empresario  says 
you  must  pay.  But,  after  all,  the  dream  was  worth 
the  time,  and  money  is  of  secondary  consideration 
in  a  trip  by  moonlight  to  Old  Panama, 


ABE  LINCOLN'S  FOUNDLING. 


S 


OME  months  ago  some  American  pros 
pectors,  while  traveling  in  the  interior 
of  Panama,  found,  at  some  distance 
from  human  habitation,  a  pretty  In 
dian  boy.  He  appeared  to  be  about 
three  and  a  half  years  of  age.  The 
gentlemen  asked  him  questions,  but 
it  appeared  that  he  was  unable  to  speak.  Upon 
arriving  in  Panama  they  bought  a  goodly  supply 
of  clothing  for  the  little  lad,  and  before  taking  their 
departure  for  some  other  part  of  the  interior  they 
found  a  home  for  him  with  a  native  woman  in  the 
Chiriqui  district,  to  whom  they  gave  enough  money 
to  provide  for  the  child  until  they  should  return,  at 
which  time  it  was  thought  that  some  one  of  the 
men  would  return  to  the  States  with  the  child  and 
would  put  him  in  a  school  for  mutes  in  New  York. 
Physicians  who  were  consulted  agreed  that  the  child 
was  deaf  and  dumb,  and  plans  were  formulated  to 
have  him  instructed  in  the  language  of  the  deaf  and 
dumb  by  a  competent  teacher  right  away. 

He  was  named  Abe  Lincoln,  on  account  of  a  cer 
tain  brightness  of  expression  about  his  eyes,  which 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  209 

reminded  his  benefactors  of  the  great  martyr.  They 
had  become  very  fond  of  the  child,  and  had  taught 
him  many  little  tricks,  which  he  would  display  for 
their  amusement. 

One  of  the  gentlemen  persisted  in  saying  that  the 
boy  was  not  a  mute,  but  that  he  had  been  twisted 
up  in  the  English  and  Spanish  languages;  that  he 
had  been  accustomed  to  some  unknown  patois, 
etc.  The  persons  laughed  at  this  who  had  declared 
the  boy  was  unmistakably  a  deaf  mute,  and  a 
teacher  worked  diligently,  and  with  good  results. 
The  boy,  being  initiative,  soon  knew  the  motions 
of  the  mute  alphabet,  and  his  foster  mother  was  so 
delighted  that  she  went  about  telling  every  one  of 
the  neighbors. 

The  child  is  a  general  favorite,  and  has  been  play 
ing  with  American  children  as  much  as  with  the 
Spanish  boys  of  the  neighborhood.  Yesterday  after 
noon  Abe  was  sitting  on  the  door-step,  whittling  a 
stick,  and,  being  bothered  by  a  fly  which  hummed 
about  his  head,  he  said,  with  calmness,  "Darn  that 
fly!" 

His  adopted  mother  ran  and  called  the  other  in 
mates  of  the  house  to  hear  Abe  talk,  and  with  de 
light  a  boy  who  spoke  English  said  that  he  was 
talking  Gringo,  all  right.  On  being  asked  if  he  was 


210  DROLL  STORIES 

speaking  English,  he  said,  in  clear  accents,  "I  guess 
so.    Sure!" 

To-day  scores  of  people  are  going  back  and  forth 
to  see  the  wonder.  The  physicians  who  pronounced 
the  boy  a  mute  appear  to  look  upon  him  as  a  phe 
nomenon,  and  one  of  the  men,  who  rather  likes  the 
little  chap,  said  to  him,  "Who  taught  you  to  speak?" 
The  boy  answered,  "Americans.  Sure!" 

Hurrah!    Much  excitement  prevails  in  the  neigh 
borhood,  and  Abe  Lincoln  is  the  hero  of  the  hour. 


STRANGER  THAN  FICTION. 


HIRTY-FIVE  years  ago  a  whaling  ship 
dropped  anchor  in  the  Bay  of  Panama 
and  the  captain  and  crew  came  ashore 
to  see  the  sights.  The  mate  of  the 
ship,  one  Cyrus  Pratt,  a  native  of  New 
Bedford,  Mass.,  fell  in  love  with  a 
beautiful  senorita  named  Marie  Ben- 
nares.  They  were  married,  and  soon  after  this 
Cyrus  was  obliged  to  sail  away.  With  many  tears 
and  much  love,  the  couple  parted,  with  vows  to  be 
come  reunited  in  the  near  future.  Cyrus  intended 
to  leave  the  ship  at  San  Francisco  and  come  back  in 
haste  to  his  darling  Marie.  But  circumstances  played 
strange  freaks  with  the  pair.  In  less  than  a  year 
Cyrus  returned,  with  a  light  of  expectation  in  his 
eyes  and  love  of  a  burning  sort  in  his  heart. 

Marie  had  gone  to  live  with  relatives  in  Bogota. 
He  set  out  for  that  distant  city,  but  fell  ill  with  fever 
and  spent  many  months  among  Indians,  who  were 
kind  to  him  and  nursed  him  through  the  period  of 
weakness  incidental  to  such  an  illness.  When  he 
reached  Bogota  it  was  to  find  that  Marie  had  gone 
to  Jamaica.  He  followed,  to  find  that  she  had  re- 


212  DROLL  STORIES 

turned  to  Panama.  Then  he  followed  her  to  Panama, 
to  find  that  his  sweet  Marie  had  gone  to  Darien  to 
live  with  an  aunt.  By  about  this  time  he  was 
"broke,"  so  he  shipped  on  a  barque  that  was  bound 
for  San  Francisco.  On  arriving  in  that  city  he  was 
obliged  to  take  a  ship  bound  for  China,  where  he 
fell  in  with  Chinese  pirates.  In  one  way  and  another 
he  was  tossed  about  the  world,  but  by  no  possible 
chance  did  he  get  anywhere  near  Panama  until  a  few 
weeks  ago,  when  a  ship  on  which  he  had  taken 
passage  from  Rio  de  Janeiro  cast  anchor  in  the 
harbor  of  Colon.  He  crossed  the  Isthmus  on  the 
wings  of  love,  to  again  pursue  the  bride  of  his  youth. 
She  had  taken  so  strong  a  hold  upon  his  imagination 
that  he  still  pictured  her  as  the  winsome  girl  whom 
he  married  thirty-five  years  ago. 

On  arriving  at  Panama  he  wended  his  way  to  the 
old  dwelling  in  the  Chiriqui  district,  where  the  lovely 
Marie  used  to  live.  He  found  the  house  exactly  as  it 
looked  in  the  old  days.  A  large,  good-natured, 
smiling,  unkempt  matron  lounged  in  the  doorway. 
She  was  surrounded  by  many  children  who  played 
about  her  knees,  and  upon  whom  she  smiled  in 
dulgently.  Cyrus  Pratt  looked  at  the  house  from  a 
safe  retreat,  in  the  hope  of  seeing  his  beautiful  Marie 
emerge,  at  some  time  or  other,  when  he  expected  to 
clasp  her  to  his  bosom,  etc.  He  was  sure  that  the 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  213 

stout  woman  in  the  doorway  was  Marie's  aunt,  who 
had  grown  larger  and  fatter  in  the  days  that  had 
gone.  Day  after  day  he  paced  at  a  distance  from 
the  dwelling  and  anxiously  watched  for  his  old-time 
love.  Toward  evening  he  observed  that  a  rather 
dark-skinned  man  would  take  a  seat  near  the  stout 
woman,  who  sat  eternally  in  that  doorway.  The 
man  would  smoke  and  smoke  in  silence.  At  last 
Cyrus  decided  to  address  the  smoker  and  make  in 
quiries  about  his  Marie.  He  was  greeted  coolly  by 
the  smoker,  and  on  throwing  out  some  hints  he  dis 
covered  that  his  Marie  and  the  ample  unkempt 
female  who  sat  with  folded  arms  amid  the  ninas 
were  one  and  the  same. 

"Everything  happens  for  the  best,"  said  Cyrus, 
as  he  hastened  away  from  the  spot.  "Who  would 
ever  think  that  my  beautiful  Marie  would  look  like 
that  at  fifty  years?  How  in  thunder  will  she  look 
at  sixty?" 

"She  thinks  I  died,"  said  Cyrus  to  a  friend;  "or 
did  she  think  at  all?" 

"I  guess  she  didn't  think  much  about  you,"  con 
soled  his  confidante. 

Cyrus,  unlike  Enoch  Arden,  is  having  a  good  time 
in  Panama,  and  is  happily  forgetful  of  that  awful 
tragedy  that  would  have  engulfed  most  men.  Marie 
believes  that  the  husband  of  her  girlhood  is  dead, 


214  DROLL  STORIES 

and  she  is  happy  in  the  thought  that  she  has  another 
man,  that  she  is  the  mother  of  five  children  and  the 
grandmother  of  ten.  So,  after  all,  every  one  is  in 
the  right.  Cyrus  at  fifty-seven  years  is  apparently 
in  the  prime  of  life;  he  has  $10,000  in  his  pocket 
or  near  at  hand,  and  he  is  seeing  the  sights,  and  in 
cidentally  inspecting  the  balconies,  in  the  hope  of 
seeing  another  senorita  who  resembles  the  lost  love 
of  his  youth.  He  says  he  will  take  another  venture, 
and  his  friends  are  anxiously  watching  for  the  event, 
for  Cyrus  says  that  in  all  his  rambles  about  the 
world  he  has  never  seen  any  girls  as  beautiful  as  the 
senoritas  of  Panama. 


FACTION   FIGHTS. 


T  is  proverbial  that  the  Irish  and  Scotch 
will  quarrel  whenever  they  happen  to 
cross  the  path  of  each  other,  just  as 
they  quarreled  at  the  battle  of  the 
Boyne.  There  is  less  bloodshed,  of 
course,  but  a  fierce  fire  of  antagonism 
burns  in  the  breast  of  each,  and  words 
are  exchanged  that  mean  nothing  beyond  the  out 
pouring  of  that  temperamental  lava  for  which  both 
races  are  justly  renowned.  There  has  been  friction 
many  times  between  the  Irish  and  Scotch  on  the 
Isthmus,  especially  at  Balboa,  where,  according  to 
rumor,  two  men,  bold,  brave  and  strong,  are  ever 
"at  it." 

In  this  particular  case  the  Scotchman  is  forever 
crossing  the  border  into  the  territory  over  which  the 
Irishman  holds  sway,  and  vice-versa.  The  men  on 
the  job  have  no  little  amusement  listening  to  the 
faction  fight.  "Bad  luck  to  him;  he's  been  dumpin' 
his  truck  right  here  in  me  way  agin.  Go  over  an' 
tell  him  to  have  that  road  cleared  or  I'll  be  after 
callin'  up  Culebra,  so  I  will,"  says  the  Irishman. 
"Go  back  and  tell  him  that  I'll  have  it  cleared  the 


216  DROLL  STORIES 

noo  if  he'll  keep  his  muts  from  sassin'  me  when 
I'm  talkin'  to  'em  for  their  own  good  when  they  put 
them  piles  right  where  I  have  to  go  down  to  the 
boat,"  answers  the  Scotchman. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  these  messages  lose 
nothing  while  being  carried  back  and  forth.  Some 
times  verbal  messages,  when  repeated,  sound  some 
thing  like  this: 

"Go  over  an'  tell  that  fellow  not  to  fash  me  wi' 
his  clather,  that  I'm  takin'  no  back  talk,  the  noo 
from  the  Irish.  May  the  duvvil  take  'em !" 

The  message  heatedly  flashed  back  reads  this 
way:  "Ah  tell  him  that  'tis  only  a  man  of  Irish 
discint  that  he's  tryin'  to  bully,  a  man  that  was  born 
under  the  Stars  and  Stripes  an'  knows  no  other  flag ; 
a  man  that  fought  for  the  government  that  he's  now 
workin'  under." 

And  the  Scotchman  wittily  replies:  "He'd  melt 
like  a  snowball  in  heaven  if  he  was  fightin'  under 
some  flags." 

"Say!  when  is  it  ever  goin'  to  stop?"  ask  their 
respective  clans.  "You'd  ought  to  see  that  Irish 
man's  eyes  rollin'  when  he  was  spittin'  fire  this 
morning.  And  the  Scotchman's  hair  was  standin' 
on  end  an'  he  talked  some  lingo  that  no  one  could 
understand." 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  217 

"That  was  broad  Scotch,  sir,"  puts  in  an  English 
subject  who  knows  something  of  the  British  Isles. 

Sometimes  they  meet  face  to  face,  and  the  scrap 
is  heated  and  amusing.  With  their  factions  ranged 
behind  them  trying  to  suppress  their  mirth  at  so 
much  free  fun,  they  jaw  each  other  to  their  heart's 
content. 

"What  are  all  them  niggers  running  for?"  asked 
a  man  a  few  days  ago.  "Are  they  blasting  up  there?" 

"No,  there  ain't  no  blastin  up  there.  The  niggers 
like  to  take  a  run  down  to  the  dock  to  hear  the  jaw, 
and,  say,  they're  eatin'  each  other  up  to-day." 

"Say,  boss,  the  Colonel's  car  is  comin',"  says  a 
trusted  African  to  his  Scottish  chief. 

"Wull,  let  it  come,  an'  dinna  ye  bother  me." 

But  an  observing  person  can  see  that  the  lava 
ceases  to  flow  as  the  noise  of  the  wheels  reach  the 
ears  of  the  warring  ones. 

"Get  busy,  there,  ye  fellows,  an'  move  them  piles. 
Don't  ye  see  that  the  ColonePll  be  along  here  in  a 
minute?  There  he  is  now." 


SECOND  PART 


THE  WOES  OF  THE  MANLY  ONES. 


S 


AY!  it's  a  limit,  the  way  a  guy  has  got 

to  get  through  this  life; 
He  gets  in  a  scrape  if  he's  single,  and 

it's  hell  to  get  on  with  a  wife. 
I'm  just  like  one  of  a  thousand  that 

are  into  a  tangle  now, 
I'd  like  to  get  out  of  it,  Gawd  knows, 
yes,  but  really  I  don't  know  how. 
In  two  little  rooms  on  Fourteenth  street,  things  are 

away  askew, 
Two  little  brown  kiddies  their  daddy  meet,  an'  a 

brown  girl  white  clear  through, 
Wait  at  the  door  and  wonder  why  I  ain't  like  I  used 

to  be, 
While  on  my  heart  there's  an  awful  load,  that  I  try 

not  to  let  her  see. 
The  Colonel  says  that  we  guys  must  go;  we  ain't 

needed  here  no  more; 

Dredges  now  are  doin'  the  work  that  the  shovels 
done  before. 


220  DROLL  STORIES 

An'  I  ain't  got  a  cent  of  the  money  saved;  I  sent  it 

all  to  the  wife, 
Who  went  out  West  with  a  guy  she  loved;  'twas 

that  one  blighted  my  life. 
Five  years  ago  I  landed  here ;  I  was  broke  an'  feelin' 

sick, 
An'  the  brown  girl  took  an'  loved  me  up,  an'  stuck 

to  me  like  a  brick; 

An'  now  I  find  it  an  effort  to  stick  to  her  likewise ; 
Say!  any  kind  of  a  female  is  better  than  us  male 

guys. 
Say,  lady!  don't  you  remember  them  words  that 

Shakespeare  said 

About  a  feller's  sex  settin'  boldly  on  his  head  ? 
Why  didn't  Gawd  make  us  different  when  He  put 

us  here  below; 
Why  did  He  give  me  a  conscience?    That's  what  I'd 

like  to  know. 
There's  Loring,  an'  Ives  an'  Phelan,  in  the  same  sort 

of  mess  as  me; 
Loring  is  handsome  an'  bad  clear  through,  an'  he 

laughs  an'  says  it's  a  spree. 
He  laughed  last  night  when  he  came  to  the  park, 

an'  sat  with  me  on  a  bench, 
An'  he  said:  "Cut  out  that  mopin',  kid;  she's  only 

a  nigger  wench." 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  221 

"But  what  about  them  kids?"  says  I,  "ain't  they 

part  of  my  flesh  and  blood  ?" 
"It's  been  that  way  with  us  guys,"  says  he,  "since 

the  time  of  the  ark  an'  flood. 
If  you  take  the  bunch  to  New  Orleans,  you'll  all 

get  landed  in  gaol 
For  a  crime  that  ain't  no  crime  at  all,  an'  ye  can't 

get  out  on  bail. 
Leave  her  on  Fourteenth  street,"  says  he,  with  a 

laugh  that  was  loud  an'  rude, 
"An'  some  old  Dutch  guy  will  blow  in  some  day 

an'  will  take  care  of  the  whole  darn  brood." 
But  I  know  that  she'll  curse  me  if  I  go,  an'  I  know 

that  them  curses  fall; 
God  knows  in  my  life  there's  enough  of  woe;  an' 

she's  human,  after  all. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  MANLY  ONES. 

HORING  and  Ives  and  Phelan  went  off  to 
Colon  last  night, 
And  the  women  on  Fourteenth  street  are 

sad,  and  the  kids  are  filled  with  fright ! 
At  eight  last  evening  Loring  came  to  bid  his  child 

"good-bye" ; 
He  picked  her  up  and  he  kissed  her,  and  you  ought 

to  hear  him  sigh. 
"Gee!  you're  a  pretty  kid,"  says  he,  in  a  tone  of 

voice  that  was  sad; 
"You're  lips  and  your  skin  are  mighty  good;  it's  a 

pity  your  hair  is  bad." 
Then  he  looked  in  the  baby's  eyes  a  while,  and  he 

says  in  a  voice  of  despair: 
"I  hate  to  leave  this  poor  little  child;  there's  my 
mother's  image  there!" 

The  brown  one  was  crying  to  beat  the  band, 

And  Loring,  he  looked  wild, 
And  says  he  to  her,  a  kind  of  off-hand, 

"Woman!  look  after  your  child! 
This  is  no  time  for  sentiment;  bring  the  money 

you've  kept  for  me; 

And  God  help  you  if  you  have  it  spent,"  says  he, 
as  he  winked  at  me. 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  223 

He  counted  the  money  out  to  her — five  hundred 

and  forty-five, 
And  says  he,  "If  you  divvy  this  up  with  a  guy  I'll 

come  and  skin  you  alive. 
Take  the  kid  from  this  place  of  stench,  for  I'm 

coming  back  some  day— 
Not  to  see  you,  you  doggone  wench — to  take  my 

child  away." 

Two  Voodoos  were  sitting  and  looking  on;  they 

intended  to  give  him  some  dope 
That  would  make  him  sleep  till  the  train  had  gone, 

After  that  there'd  be  little  hope 
That  he'd  ever  wake  to  things    again — that    are 

wholesome  and  clean  and  good. 
He'd  thirst  for  low  life  without  twinge  of  pain,  if 

the  Voodoos  got  dope  to  his  blood. 

Well,  then  we  went  out  to  Corozal,  where  the  others 

were  taking  the  train, 
And  a  white  girl  waited  for  Loring  there,  and  her 

tears  fell  down  like  rain. 
He  didn't  seem  to  mind  it  at  all;  in  fact,  he  looked 

rather  proud, 
When  a  married  woman  ran  up  to  him  and  kissed 

him  before  the  crowd. 
Then  Phelan  and  Ives,  in  an  awful  fright,  got  into 

the  train  mighty  quick, 


224  DROLL  STORIES 

For  their  women  from  Fourteenth  street  were  there, 

and  each  had  a  gun  and  a  brick. 
Gee!  it's  the  limit,  the  way  we  guys  will  tamper 

with  women's  lives, 
When  we  have  nothing  in  mind  but  to  leave  them 

behind,  like  Loring  and  Phelan  and  Ives. 

A  WORD  TO  THE  SLANDERED  ONES. 

EE!  girl,  you're  looking  sad,  but  it's  hardly 

worth  your  while; 
You've  heard  the  slander;  it's  mighty  bad, 

but  hold  up  your  head  and  smile. 
Keep  cool,  lest  your  hair  turns  grey ;  no  matter  how 

keen  your  sorrow, 
The  man  who  slandered  you  so  to-day  will  slander 

some  other  to-morrow. 
He  is  only  a  tiny  atom  of  dirt,  like  the  rest  of  his 

kind  of  earth; 
His  slanderous  words  may  rankle  and  hurt,  but  'twas 

envy  that  gave  them  birth. 
If  you  have  no  brother  or  kindred  man,  why  expect 

to  see  fun? 
Seek  your  retreat  where  no  vultures  meet,  and  lead 

your  life  like  a  nun. 

You're  only  a  sex,  and  your  presence  vex  the  things 
that  as  man  you  know; 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  225 

You've  lost  your  good  name,  though  you're  not  to 

blame — a  vulture  would  have  it  so. 
More  than  two  thousand  miles  away  is  the  class  into 

which  you  were  born; 
The  class  where  a  man  is  a  man  each  day,  and  your 

kind  is  not  subject  of  scorn. 
The  things  called  men,  who  bandied  your  name  over 

their  glasses  of  booze, 
Who  made  you  the  butt  of  their  poker  game,  have 

nothing  themselves  to  lose. 
They  of  female  kind,  whom  they  happen  to  meet, 

do  not  belong  to  your  sphere ; 
And  most  of  the  guys  that  you  see  on  the  street  are 

subject  to  fits  that  are  queer. 

MRS.  WITH'S  AFFINITY. 

MAN  named  Mike  Maginity 
Was  Mrs.  With's  affinity, 

And  Mrs.  Brown  moved  out  of  tov/n, 

Away  from  that  vicinity. 

Then  a  mut  named  Jim  O'Flarity, 
In  a  burst  of  fool  garality, 

Told  Mr.  With  there  was  no  mith 
In  Mrs.  With's  hilarity. 


226  DROLL  STORIES 

Mr.  With  was  watchful  then; 
He  polished  up  his  gun,  and  when 

The  soul  mate  came  he  fired  to  maim, 
Like  many  other  foolish  men. 

With  is  in  the  penitentiary, 
Without  the  least  retrenchery, 

And  calm  and  still,  on  Monkey  Hill, 
Poor  Mike  will  spend  the  century. 
Mrs.  With,  in  fetch  array, 
And  many  kinds  of  wretchery, 

Was  sent  away  one  summer  day — > 
Deported  home  through  treachery. 

THE  TANGO  SKIRT  AND  THE  WOMAN. 

IE  had  a  jolly  holdup  in  the  Central  house 

Wj    j  t- 

last  night,  and  the  way  that  Tango  skirt 
was  hung  put  the  women  in  a  fright.  A 
preacher  took  a  snapshot  of  that  violent 
expose,  and  sent  it  off  to  Comstock,  to  New  York, 
U.  S.  A.  Twas  fun  to  see  the  women  steer  their  hus 
bands  out  the  door,  and  Murtha  said,  "We'll  be  dogv 

goned  if  wel'll  dance  here  any  more." bowec^ 

his  head  and  blushed,  and  wore  a  look  of  shame,  an$ 
the  management  felt  awful,  and  said  we're  not  to, 
blame.  The  captains  and  lieutenants  said  that  Tango, 
was  a  sin,  while  the  roughnecks  and  the  vultures  sat 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  227 

'round  and  wore  a  grin.  The  learned  judges  from 
the  Zone  to  the  balconies  went  to  look,  and  the  only 
baldhead  not  around  was  that  of  Colonel  Took. 
Poor  Deeps  and  Jimmy  Terry  came  in  to  take  a 
squint;  the  dancers  acted  merry,  but  finally  took  a 
hint  that  their  dancing  was  unseeming,  as  the 
females  all  were  hurt,  and  Deeps  put  on  his  glasses 
to  diagnose  that  skirt.  He  said  'twas  sixteen  inches 
wide,  and  just  above  the  knee  there's  nothing  but 
horizon,  as  every  one  can  see;  there's  not  a  bit  of 
cotton  cloth,  nor  a  tiny  bit  of  lace — nothing  but  the 
electric  light  a-shining  through  the  space.  Then  he 
turned  to  order  drinks  up,  for  the  waiter  came  to 
him,  and  Terry  he  got  busy  and  diagnosed  a  limb. 
There  were  shouts  and  shrieks  of  feeling  and  echoes 
of  applause;  men  were  drunk  and  reeling,  went 
forth  with  loud  haw-haws.  The  persons  we  call 
human,  when  all  is  said  and  done,  at  the  antics  of  a 
woman  looked  on  and  called  it  fun. 

AN  EPIC  OF  THE  ZONE. 

ERCY  BECKLE  went  out  walking  in  the 
silent  hours  of  night ;  the  neighbors  all  were 
talking,  and  his  wife  was  filled  with  fright. 
She  would  sit  beside  the  window,  her  lone 
watch  to  keep,  and  would  tell  her  friends  and  chil 
dren  he  was  walking  in  his  sleep.  She  married  him. 


228  DROLL  STORIES 

in  Pottsville,  for  better  or  for  worse ;  he  was  a  hard 
shell  Baptist,  and  didn't  smoke  or  curse ;  but  he  en 
tered  in  the  service  of  the  U.  S.  Government,  passed 
examination  and  to  Panama  was  sent. 

When  the  doctors  looked  him  over  it  was  found 
he  had  no  brain,  so  they  put  him  as  a  gumshoe  on 
an  early  morning  train,  and  there  he  met  a  charmer 
whose  skin  was  very  brown ;  for  a  year  she  took  his 
coin  away,  and  then  she  turned  him  down. 

He  then  became  a  Redman,  a  thing  he  shouldn't 
do,  and  later  thought  it  better  to  become  a  Kan 
garoo.  He  started  chasing  petticoats  wherever  one 
he  saw,  and  the  Kangaroos  got  after  him;  'twas  so 
against  their  law(  ?)  Meantime  his  wife  was  hungry 
and  his  babies  had  no  shoes;  the  Redmen  took  and 
threw  him  out,  he  didn't  pay  his  dues ;  his  poor  wife 
took  to  drinking,  to  while  the  time  away,  and  Mrs. 
C.  L.  E.  sent  her  to  Brooklyn,  U.  S.  A. 

Now,  Percy  kept  the  chase  up  for  nigh  another 
year;  his  business  was  to  ascertain  if  females  acted 
queer.  The  women  feared  to  speak  or  look,  they 
hated  him  so  much,  but  Percy  knew  them  like  a 
book,  being  Pennsylvania  Dutch. 

He  would  go  to  Sam's  on  Sundays,  and  to  the 
Central,  too,  and  would  sit  and  tell  the  vultures  of 
the  many  things  he  knew.  If  he  saw  a  female  pass 
ing  he  would  bow  and  scrape  and  smile,  and  if  she; 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  220 

turned  her  nose  up  he  would  criticize  her  style.  (The 
brute!) 

At  last  he  went  and  sickened,  he  was  feeling  very 
sad;  the  plots  he  made  had  thickened,  and  the 
women  all  were  mad.  Deeks  said  he  had  nephritis. 
They  all  pronounced  him  ill.  But  he  died  of 
feminitis,  and  he  lies  on  Money  Hill. 

THE  VULTURES  ON  THE  ZONE. 

O  all  the  jolly  roughnecks  and  pushers  of  the 
pen,  a  short  and  pungent  lecture  I  will  give. 
Just  take  this  bit  of  doggerel,  and  read  it 
if  you're  men,  and  use  it  as  a  lesson  while 
you  live.  If  you  go  to  Sam's  on  Sunday,  and  you 
meet  a  smirking  guy  with  commissary  silk  hose 
on  his  feet,  if  he  smiles  from  ear  to  ear,  make  up 
your  mind  to  hear  a  story  that  is  anything  but  sweet. 
He  will  say  I  met  last  night  Bill  Smith's  wrfe,  that's 
right,  an',  say,  that  woman,  she  just  follers  me 
around,  while  poor  Bill  is  all  alone,  for  she  never  is 
at  home,  and  any  guy  can  get  her  if  he's  sound,  if 
your  blood  is  red,  my  son,  you  will  take  and  draw 
your  gun,  and  aim  it  at  the  gizzard  of  the  brute,  or 
you'll  punch  his  booby  head  till  he  wishes  he  was 
dead  and  make  of  him  a  spectacle  that's  cute. 
A  chump  that  talks  of  women  is  nothing  that  is 


230  DROLL  STORIES 

human;  make  up  your  mind  he's  just  a  low-down 
liar,  who  wouldn't  stand  a  chance  to  win  a  passing 
glance  from  women  who  just  live  for  men  to  hire. 
By  the  hundreds  on  the  Zone  this  class  of  vultures 
roam;  they  are  ever  on  the  watch  to  pick  a  flaw; 
they  covet  neighbors'  wives  who  are  living  decent 
lives,  and  to  save  their  coin  they'd  break  the  moral 
law. 

Now  I  hope  you  all  are  wise  to  the  lying,  boastful 
spies,  who  criticize  their  betters  in  the  street,  who 
pretend  they're  looking  sly  and  who  wink  the  other 
eye  at  every  decent  woman  that  they  meet.  When 
some  vulture  tries  this  chaff,  just  say,  "You  make 
me  laugh,"  and  hold  him  up  to  ridicule,  the  guy; 
you  may  bet  your  bottom  dollar  'tis  some  gink  that 
doesn't  holler,  that  gets  the  precious  favors  on  the 
sly. 

A  FAKER'S  FAREWELL. 

AREWELL,  O  thou  land  of  sweet  sunshine, 
where  I  walked  with  non-sweatable  pace;  I 
was  fed,  I  was  clothed,  and  I  humbugged; 
my  lady  I  decked  out  with  grace.  From 
the  cake  with  sugary  frosting  all  covered  with  raisins 
I  go,  to  the  land  where  the  natives  are  often  addicted 
to  shoveling  snow,  where  I  shan't  have  a  coon  right 
before  me  to  run  when  I  bid  for  a  thing,  I  go  from 


Off  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  231 

the  land  of  sweet  loafing,  where  our  Uncle  George 
is  the  king. 

Farewell,  thou  dear  land  of  the  Aztec,  O,  pulga, 
farewell,  to  thy  sting,  to  the  hum  of  the  social  mos 
quito,  that  Gorgas  could  trap  while  a-wing.  Fare 
well  to  the  nights  of  gay  doing,  to  the  mirth  which 
I  had  on  the  sly,  some  kinds  that  I  now  am  a-rueing, 
while  our  uncle  just  winked  on  the  sly.  When  into 
a  new  job  I  sidle,  somewhere  in  Nebraska's  broad 
space,  I  ain't  got  enough  to  live  idle,  but  I  pray  that 
the  Lord  give  me  grace,  to  find  such  a  cinch  un 
molested,  where  no  dictator  ever  shall  say:  "Your 
job  I'm  about  to  have  vested,  in  a  man  who  will 
work  for  his  pay."  O !  politics,  where  are  the  graces 
the  Irish  have  seen  in  thy  wake  ?  I've  dropped  into 
many  soft  places,  and  was  ousted  out  just  for  your 
sake.  But  no  job  was  ever  as  downy  as  this  one, 
the  truth  here  I  tell.  My  bald  brow  is  wrinkled  and 
frowny;  dear  land  of  the  Aztec,  farewell! 

IT'S  GOT  'EM. 

T'S  got  'em,  yes,  it's  got  'em;  they're  loco, 
•  one  and  all.  There  has  never  been  as  many 
since  the  time  of  Adam's  fall.  The  man 
that  lives  across  the  way,  the  loved  one  of 
your  soul ;  the  guy  who  owes  you  money,  all  are 
loco  on  the  whole.  Yes,  it's  got  'em.  Some  are  off 


232  DROLL  STORIES 

on  trotting,  and  some  on  love  and  wine;  some  are 
off  on  politics,  and  some  are  off  on  coin.  It's  got 
'em;  yes,  it's  got  'em,  in  many  different  ways;  the 
women's  skirts  like  trousers  are,  the  men  are  wear 
ing  stays.  It's  got  'em. 

While  alighting  from  the  train  at  night  in  your 
grimy  khaki  pants,  don't  wince  to  see  your  heart's 
delight  all  togged  out  for  a  dance;  don't  raise  your 
eyes  to  look  at  her ;  be  workmanlike  and  meek.  She 
smiles  on  Major  Dickelfer,  she  fears  you're  goin'  to 
speak.  For  it's  got  her. 

You'll  find  your  kids  a-cryin'  'round  the  brown- 
skinned  hired  girl,  the  neighbors  all  a-pryin',  and 
your  cassa  in  a  whirl;  with  rats  and  bits  of  finery, 
with  old  stockings  and  old  shoes.  Don't  go  to 
geetin'  squiffy;  'twas  just  the  thing  you  choose. 
And  it's  got  you.  Don't  fret  and  fume  about  it; 
take  your  commissary  book,  go  down  and  get  your 
groceries,  and  bring  them  to  the  cook.  Then  take 
your  kids  an'  wash  'em  up  an'  change  their  little 
frocks;  see  they  get  their  suppers,  then  mend  your 
pants  and  socks.  And  don't  let  it  get  you. 

If  your  wife  throws  cups  and  saucers  about  your 
head  at  night,  don't  shriek  and  call  the  neighbors  in 
to  put  'em  in  a  fright.  Don't  call  on  poor  Johannes, 
and  put  him  in  a  rage,  but  fold  your  arms  about 
your  breast,  like  a  hero  on  the  stage.  She's  got  it. 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  233 

If  your  neighbor's  wife  is  flirting,  don't  run  to 
call  police,  just  flirt  a  little  bit  yourself  or  go  your 
way  in  peace.  Don't  go  to  Sam's  and  sit  and  tell 
the  vultures  all  she  said  when  you  took  her  for  the 
auto  ride  to  Panama  with  "Red."  Or  she'll  get  you. 

IT'S  HELL. 


NGERSQLL  said  that  hell  would  be  where 
men  played  tag  and  harps  all  day,  but  just 
a  few  lines  here  will  tell  about  some 
miseries  that  made  a  hell.  When  you  work 
like  a  brute  from  morning  to  night,  the  result  but 
another  man's  joy  and  delight;  when  your  wife 
growls  late  and  early,  too,  and  never  speaks  well  of 
what  you  do:  That's  hell! 

When  she  runs  away  with  another  man,  though 
she  knows  you  are  doing  the  best  you  can,  you 
know  it's  because  your  pay  ain't  high,  but  you  make 
up  your  mind  that  it's  best  to  lie;  so  when  folks 
ask  you  the  reason  why,  you  say  her  old  mother  is 
going  to  die.  Then,  lo!  the  old  woman  turns  up 
that  night,  and  your  neighbors  say:  "He's  a  liar,  all 
right."  That's  hell. 

When  some  one  you  wouldn't  let  wipe  your  feet 
tells  to  the  vultures  in  the  street  that  to  gain  your 
affections  they  needn't  try,  that  he's  the  petted  gink 


234  DTlOLL 


on  the  sly,  and  some  old  gossip  who  this  has  heard 
comes  round  and  tells  you  every  word,  your  mind 
and  soul  are  filled  with  dismay,  but  because  you're 
a  lady  there's  nothing  to  say.  And  it's  hell. 

When  your  dress  and  your  hat  cost  you  five,  and 
you  sewed  on  them  nights  when  half  alive,  but  when 
you  wear  them  the  neighbors  smile,  and  say  to  each 
other,  "just  see  that  style  —  catch  on  to  the  Paris 
gown  and  hat;  where  did  she  get  coin  to  dress  like 
that?  That  rig  is  a  mighty  costly  one  —  and  I 
wonder  her  husband  don't  catch  on."  You  smile  as 
you  trip  through  the  merry  throng,  smarting  under 
an  awful  wrong.  And  it's  hell  ! 

When  you  marry  some  mother's  angel  pet,  who 
away  from  coddling  you  cannot  get,  just  make  up 
your  mind  to  find  a  way  to  bear  your  burden  day 
by  day.  And  when  his  misdoings  are  laid  to  you, 
you'll  say  this  old  world  is  all  askew.  And  it's  hell  ! 

THE   LOCO  GERM. 

0HEN   it  enters  your  system,  don't  try  to 
squirm  ;  just  take  your  medicine,  it's  a  loco 
germ.    It  may  not  come  till  you're  old  and 
gray,  but  every  guy  takes  it  on  some  day. 
It  cuts  no  ice  if  her  feet  are  big,  and  if  in  your  heart 
you  don't  like  her  rig;  if  her  hands  are  coarse  and  H 
little  bit  red,  and  horse-hair  rats  are  in  her  head. 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  235 

You  will  see  the  defects  and  will  says,  "By  Jove! 
She's  the  one  for  me."  You're  in  love. 

She'll  be  indifferent,  it's  just  their  way;  a  little 
bit  selfish,  a  little  bit  gay,  but  she  touched  your 
hand  and  she  makes  you  thrill ;  then  lookout,  old 
chap,  you  are  losing  your  will.  You'll  notice  the 
paint  if  she  uses  such,  but  you'll  never  think  she  has 
on  too  much.  You'll  see  she  ain't  real,  where  she 
ought  to  be,  and  a  thousand  other  defects  you'll  see. 
But,  no  matter,  you  only  think  of  the  bliss,  of 
getting  from  her  the  fatal  kiss.  You're  in  love. 

All  your  traditions  are  quite  upset;  what  your 
mother  taught  you,  you'll  quite  forget;  you'll  get 
suspicious  of  those  you  knew,  and  you'll  think  your 
pals  are  in  love  with  her,  too.  You'll  spend  your 
coin,  and  you'll  spend  it  well,  on  the  richest  things 
the  Chinks  have  to  sell,  and  you'll  lay  them  down 
on  the  floor  at  her  feet,  and  your  heart  will  throb 
when  her  glance  you  meet.  You're  in  love. 

You  may  have  cherished  a  grand  ideal  all  your 
former  days,  but  there's  nothing  real;  the  ones  you 
knew  in  the  days  gone  by  will  fade  from  your  mind, 
and  you  will  not  sigh.  The  loved  one's  voice  may 
be  rather  strong,  her  chin  may  be  weak  and  her 
nose  too  long;  her  manners,  too,  are  a  little  crude, 
and  she  isn't  herself  when  she  plays  the  prude.  The 


236  DROLL  STORIES 

grammar  she  uses  is  not  in  tone  with  the  district 
school  ma'am  away  back  home.    You're  in  love. 

You  are  caught  in  a  net  she  has  woven  for  you — a 
net  from  which  have  escaped  a  few;  and  if  on  the 
whole  she  offends  your  taste,  being  forty-five  inches 
about  the  waist,  and  if  you  don't  fancy  that  seven 
shoe,  never  mind;  she's  the  one  for  you.  You'll 
forget  and  forgive  if  she  has  a  past ;  you  think  you're 
her  first  real  love,  and  her  last.  You  are  hot  all 
over,  your  heart  beats  fast.  You're  in  love. 

AN   ISTHMIAN   WOOER. 

JAY,  girl,  I  admire  your  shape,  an'  I  want  to 
§  take  you  to  ride.  I'm  goin'  to  get  a  coach 

closed  in,  so  they  won't  know  who's  inside. 

An',  say,  I  wish  you  lived  down  the  line, 
but  you  live  like  a  speakitty.  Wouldn't  you  like 
a  little  time  with  a  lovin'  guy  like  me?  Straight 
goods,  I  like  your  style;  I  told  a  feller  so;  I 
admired  you  for  quite  a  while,  an'  I  bet  you  didn't 
know.  I  said  to  a  guy,  "I'm  goin'  around  an'  I'll 
bet  I'll  make  a  hit."  I  won't  never  breathe  a  dog 
gone  sound — let  me  love  you  up  a  bit.  How  could 
I  squeal,  when  I  have  a  wife  that  thinks  me  the 
finest  thing  that  ever  drew  the  breath  of  life,  an 
angel  without  a  wing?  I'd  like  to  bring  you  a  bottle 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  237 

of  jam,  some  day  from  the  commissary,  livin'  alone 
without  a  man. 

Say,  kid,  ain't  you  free  to  marry  ?  Class !  What's 
that  got  to  do  with  us?  Say,  that  puts  me  on  the 
bum.  Education,  your  foot!  Don't  make  such  a 
fuss;  see,  I  brought  you  some  chewin'  gum.  You're 
just  a  little  too  touchy,  see !  I  don't  understand  your 
way.  The  wimmin  I  know  are  easy  an'  free,  an' 
just  a  little  bit  gay.  If  I  was  just  a  man  about  town, 
don't  you  believe  I'd  look  it?  I  like  you,  girl;  don't 
wear  such  a  frown!  Do  you  think  I'm  a  guy  that's 
crooked?  I'm  not  of  your  class?  Oh,  that's  it,  eh? 
Some  chump  that  pushes  a  pen,  that  gets  but  a  hun 
dred  a  month  for  pay,  is  more  in  your  line  of  men. 
Do  you  know  what  the  Colonel  said  to  me?  an'  I 
think  he's  always  right.  Education  ain't  worth  a 
darn,  says  he;  'tis  a  man  that  puts  up  the  fight. 
Well,  so  long,  kid,  since  you  prefer  a  guy  that 
pushes  a  pen,  who  has  his  little  hundred  per,  but 
ain't  my  class  of  men. 

PRESERVED   PEACHES. 

HE  chumps  in  Panama  were  glad  to  do  the 
turkey  trot,  and  other  stunts  not  quite  so 
bad  that  folks    call    tommy    rot.     When 
Morton  with  his  peaches  came,  the  cavaliers 
made  bids,  preserved  them  up  in  dry  champagne, 


238  DROLL  STORIES 

and  acted  just  like  kids.  A  banker  now  is  bank 
rupt,  and  the  guy  in  the  Elite  is  selling  out  his  socks 
and  pants  to  put  him  on  his  feet.  Raul  E.  has  a 
broken  limb,  he  capered  so  each  night.  The  peaches 
all  looked  up  to  him  because  his  heart  was  light. 

We  hoary  heads  came  from  the  Zone,  in  force,  to 
see  it  done,  and  spent  our  coin,  lest  it  be  thought 
we  didn't  like  the  fun.  Our  wives  and  mothers 
thought  that  we  were  at  a  mission  church,  listening 
to  a  sermon  by  the  Rev.  Baldhead  Birch.  And  when 
we  sought  our  peaceful  homes  with  sanctimonious 
airs,  and  knelt  beside  our  babies'  cots  and  taught 
them  little  prayers,  we  felt  a  sort  of  sneakish,  like 
other  hypocrites,  and  worried  lest  our  wives  hear, 
and  have  a  thousand  fits.  But  now  these  spasms 
are  all  gone;  we're  quite  ourselves  again;  our  wives 
have  never  yet  caught  on,  and  therefore  have  felt 
no  pain.  The  Morton  Peaches  were  so  wise,  they 
took  our  coin  away,  and  told  us  we  were  silly  guys, 
like  those  along  Broadway. 

EUGENICS. 

ATCH  on  to  the  girl  with  a  dog  on  a  string — 
a  dog  that  was  bred  for  the  eye  of  a  king — 
and  she  a  pathetic  figure  to  see,  is  proud 
that  the  mut  has  a  pedigree.    She  studied 
eugenics  for  many  a  year,  and  lectured  on  institu- 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  239 

tions  queer,  but  she  was  poor,  and  she  feared  to  get 
old,  so  she  sold  herself  for  a  pot  of  gold. 

Ain't  that  life? 

She  married  a  guy  whose  toes  turn  in,  when  he 
opens  his  mouth  he  has  no  chin,  no  lobes  to  his  ears 
and  he  stutters  some,  and  chews  on  opium  as  if 
'twas  gum.  But  she  says  she  is  proud  to  be  that 
man's  wife,  and  calls  him  her  dearest — 

Say!    Ain't  that  life? 

On  a  little  farther  a  chap  you'll  see,  who  is  just 
as  straight  as  a  poplar  tree;  his  chin  is  normal,  his 
forehead  is  high ;  see,  his  face  turns  red  as  he  passes 
her  by,  for  down  in  his  heart  there's  a  tiny  spot, 
where  her  image  will  ever  lie  unforgot,  and  a  rest 
less  longing  has  he  for  her.  If  the  neighborhood 
knew  it  he'd  be  called  a  cur. 

Ain't  that  life? 

As  they  pass  each  other  they  never  speak.  He 
looks  indifferent,  while  she  looks  meek.  And  they 
drop  their  eyes  when  they  chance  to  meet,  and  look 
at  each  other  from  some  retreat.  And  she  pretends 
that  she  doesn't  care,  though  in  her  face  you  car* 
see  despair.  Her  heart  beats  high ;  it's  an  awful  sin,( 
but  she'd  like  a  son  the  image  of  him. 

Ain't  that  life? 

In  her  home  there's  a  bundle  of  bone  and  skin; 
it  ha§  its  father's  ears  and  chin,  and  the  neighbors 


240  DROLL  STORIES 

say,  with  voices  glad,  "Isn't  he  cute?  He  looks  like 
his  dad!"  But  on  her  heart  there's  an  awful  load, 
for  she  sees  that  her  baby's  legs  are  bowed.  She 
sees  in  his  eyes  a  peculiar  light,  that  keeps  her  awake 
in  the  dead  of  night.  And  she  kneels  on  her  knees 
and  she  breathes  a  prayer,  for  she  knows  that  old 
Nature  has  gotten  square. 
That's  life! 

!  , 

TABOGA. 

HE   latest  order  given  out  has  made  the 
chumps  feel  blue ;  they  don't  know  what  it's 
all  about,  but  let  me  tell  you,  they've  lost 
their  graft,  for  when  they  go  to  the  Isle 
across  the  bay  they  have  to  take  their  wallets,  be 
cause  they  have  to  pay. 

Some  blame  it  all  on  Uncle  Sam,  and  some  on 
Uncle  George,  and  others  say  he's  not  to  blame, 
because  his  heart  is  large ;  but  a  guy  told  me,  in  con 
fidence,  who  seldom  ever  speaks,  that  he  isn't 
blaming  any  one  but  poor  old  baldhead  Meeks. 

Before  that  guy  came  back,  said  he,  we  could 
spend  a  little  more  on  drinks  and  turkey  trottings 
at  Jones's  by  the  short.  There's  one  good  thing 
about  it,  though,  if  you  get  a  little  tight,  you're  not 
an  orphan  chap  no  more;  you  can  stay  away  all 


OF  ISTHMIAN  LIFE.  241 

night.  And  if  you  stay  out  after  nine,  your  time 
they  cannot  dock,  since  we  began  to  pay  our  way 
we  stay  till  twelve  o'clock. 

But,  say!  the  wife  won't  let  me  go  to  the  Isle 
across  the  bay,  because  she  says  we  can't  afford  to 
pay  two  plunks  a  day.  Should  hubby  rest,  the  wife 
will  stay  to  mend  the  socks  and  pants;  it  cost  too 
much  to  go  with  hub  to  learn  the  latest  dance.  To 
give  good  coin  for  rent  and  light  and  rest  she  can't 
endure;  the  future  isn't  looking  bright,  our  graft  Js 
slipping  sure. 

OUR  UNCLE  GEORGE. 

UR  Uncle  George  is  wide  awake  to  things 
that  are  not  so;  he's  weeding  out  for  pity's 
sake  the  guys  that  ought  to  go.  The  vultures 
all  are  talking,  they  say  he's  acting  queer, 
because  he's  on  to  faking  ones  that  passed  for  high 
brows  here. 

Our  little  faker  daddy,  with  the  whiskers  on  his 
chin,  has  gone  to  get  a  better  job;  now,  isn't  that  a 
sin?  He  was  the  king  of  fakers,  all  whiskers  and 
no  soul;  he  didn't  fake  a  single  day  when  Uncle 
got  control. 

We  hear  that  in  Nebraska  some  folks  are  sawing 
wood  that  used  to  live  in  splendor  here  when  faking 
times  were  good.  If  it  was  not  for  our  Uncle  they'd 


242  DROLL  STORIES 

all  be  living  still,  in  mansions  fit  for  harem  girls  on 
Slyvan  Ancon  Hill.  They  say  his  nerve  is  getting 
weak,  but  he's  only  getting  wise;  he's  handing  out 
a  line  of  dope  that  takes  them  by  surprise.  He  has 
his  wits  about  him  yet,  and  his  love  for  all  things 
just,  so  when  he  says  get  up  and  get,  the  fakers 
know  they  must.  Our  Uncle  has  the  helm,  and  he's 
steering  mighty  well;  he  fears  no  politicians,  they 
all  can  go  to  heaven. 

The  fawners  and  the  cringers  think  the  Zone  is 
all  askew,  but  Uncle  never  did  have  use  for  that 
that  was  not  true. 


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